[BRARY 


"HE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CALIFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


n 


FISHERMAN'S  LUCK 
by   HENRY   VAN    DYKE 


WORKS  BY 
HENRY  VAN   DYKE 

SIXJDAYS  OF  THE  WEEK 

LITTLE  RIVERS 

FISHERMAN'S  LUCK 

DAYS  OFF 

THE  BLUE  FLOWER 

THE  VALLEY  OF  VISION 

CAMP-FIRES  AND  GUIDE- 
POSTS 

COMPANIONABLE  BOOKS 

POEMS,  COLLECTION  IN  ONE 
VOLUME 

GOLDEN  STARS 

THE  RED  FLOWER 

MUSIC,  AND  OTHER   POEMS 

THE  TOILING  OF  FELIX, 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 

OUT  OF  DOORS  IN  THE  HOLY 
LAND 

FIGHTING  FOR  PEACE 

HODDER  &  STOUGHTON,  Ltd. 
PUBLISHERS  LONDON,  E.C-4 


FISHERMAN'S 
LUCK 

AND   SOME  OTHER  UNCERTAIN  THINGS 
by 

HENRY  VAN   DYKE 


HODDER    AND    STOUGHTON 
LIMITED  LONDON 


"  Now  I  conclude  that  not  only  inPhysicke,  but  likewise 

sundry  more  certaine  arts,  fortune  hath  great  share  in  thet 

M.  DE  MONTAIGNE:  Divers  Events 


Copyright  New  York 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Made  and  Printed  in  Great  Britain. 
Haiett,  Watson  &  Viney,  Ld.,  London  and  AyUsbury, 


Dedication 

"PS 

TO 

MY   LADY   GREYGOWN 

/9o<£> 

Here  is  the  basket ;  I  bring  it  home  to  you. 
There  are  no  great  fish  in  it.  But  perhaps 
there  may  be  one  or  two  little  ones  which  will  be 
to  your  taste.  And  there  are  a  few  shining 
pebbles  from  the  bed  of  the  brook,  and  ferns  from 
the  cool,  green  woods,  and  wild  flowers  from 
the  places  that  you  remember.  I  would  fain 
console  you,  if  I  could,  for  the  hardship  of  having 
married  an  angler  :  a  man  who  relapses  into 
his  mania  with  the  return  of  every  spring, 
and  never  sees  a  little  river  without  wishing  to 
fish  in  it.  But  after  all,  we  have  had  good 
times  together  as  we  have  followed  the  stream 
of  life  towards  the  sea.  And  we  have  passed 
through  the  dark  days  without  losing  heart, 
because  we  were  comrades.  So  let  this  book 
tell  you  one  thing  that  is  certain.  In  all  the 
life  of  your  fisherman  the  best  piece  of  luck  is 
just  YOU. 


Contents 


I.  FISHERMAN  S  LUCK      . 

II.  THE  THRILLING  MOMENT      . 

III.  TALKABILITY      . 

IV.  A  WILD  STRAWBERRY 

V.  LOVERS  AND   LANDSCAPE     . 

VI.  A  FATAL  SUCCESS 

VII.  FISHING  IN   BOOKS      . 

VIII.  A  NORWEGIAN   HONEYMOON 

IX.  WHO  OWNS  THE   MOUNTAINS  ? 

X.  A  LAZY,    IDLE  BROOK 
7 


9 

42 

56 

81 
101 
117 

134 
160 

183 
191 


8  Contents 

PACI 

XI.     THE   OPEN   FIRE  .  .  .  •      2I< 

XII.     A   SLUMBER   SONG         .  .  .  -24* 

INDEX 24; 


Fisherman's  Luck 


"She  could  not  conceive  a  game  wanting  the  sprightly 
infusion  of  chance, — the  handsome  excuses  of  good  for 
tune." — CHARLES  LAMB:  Essays  of  Elia. 

HAS  it  ever  fallen  in  your  way  to  notice  the 
quality  of  the  greetings  that  belong  to 
certain  occupations? 

There  is  something  about  these  salutations  in 
kind  which  is  singularly  taking  and  grateful  to 
the  ear.  They  are  as  much  better  than  an  ordi 
nary  "  good  day  "  or  a  flat  "  how  are  you?  "  as 
a  folk-song  of  Scotland  or  the  Tyrol  is  better 
than  the  futile  love-ditty  of  the  drawing-room. 
They  have  a  spicy  and  rememberable  flavour. 
They  speak  to  the  imagination  and  point  the 
way  to  treasure-trove. 


io  Fisherman's  Luck 

There  is  a  touch  of  dignity  in  them,  too,  for 
all  they  are  so  free  and  easy — the  dignity  of 
independence,  the  native  spirit  of  one  who 
takes  for  granted  that  his  mode  of  living  has  a 
right  to  make  its  own  forms  of  speech.  I 
admire  a  man  who  does  not  hesitate  to  salute 
the  world  in  the  dialect  of  his  calling. 

How  salty  and  stimulating,  for  example,  is 
the  sailorman's  hail  of  "  Ship  ahoy !  "  It  is  like 
a  breeze  laden  with  briny  odours  and  a  pleasant 
dash  of  spray.  The  miners  in  some  parts  of 
Germany  have  a  good  greeting  for  their  dusky 
trade.  They  cry  to  one  who  is  going  down  the 
shaft,  "  Glilck  auf! "  All  the  perils  of  an  un 
derground  adventure  and  all  the  joys  of  seeing 
the  sun  again  are  compressed  into  a  word.  Even 
the  trivial  salutation  which  the  telephone  has 
lately  created  and  claimed  for  its  peculiar  use — 
"  Hello,  hello !  " — seems  to  me  to  have  a  kind 
of  fitness  and  fascination.  It  is  like  a  thorough 
bred  bulldog,  ugly  enough  to  be  attractive. 
There  is  a  lively,  concentrated,  electric  air  about 
it.  It  makes  courtesy  wait  upon  dispatch,  and 
reminds  us  that  we  live  in  an  age  when  it  is 
necessary  to  be  wide  awake. 

I  have  often  wished  that  every  human  em- 


Fisherman's  Luck  II 

ployment  might  evolve  its  own  appropriate 
greeting.  Some  of  them  would  be  queer,  no 
doubt;  but  at  least  they  would  be  an  improve 
ment  on  the  wearisome  iteration  of  "  Good- 
evening  "  and  "  Good-morning,"  and  the 
monotonous  inquiry,  "  How  do  you  do  ?  " — a 
question  so  meaningless  that  it  seldom  tarries 
for  an  answer.  Under  the  new  and  more 
natural  system  of  etiquette,  when  you  passed 
the  time  of  day  with  a  man  you  would  know  his 
business,  and  the  salutations  of  the  market 
place  would  be  full  of  interest. 

As  for  my  chosen  pursuit  of  angling  (which  I 
follow  with  diligence  when  not  interrupted  by 
less  important  concerns),  I  rejoice  with  every 
true  fisherman  that  it  has  a  greeting  all  its  own 
and  of  a  most  honourable  antiquity.  There  is 
no  written  record  of  its  origin.  But  it  is  quite 
certain  that  since  the  days  after  the  Flood,  when 
Deucalion 

"  Did  first  this  art  invent 

Of  angling,  and  his  people  taught  the  same," 
two  honest  and  good-natured  anglers  have  never 
met  each  other  by  the  way  without  crying  out, 
"What  luck?"   " 

Here,  indeed,  is  an  epitome  of  the  gentle  art. 


12  Fisherman's  Luck 

Here  is  the  spirit  of  it  embodied  in  a  word  and 
paying  its  respects  to  you  with  its  native  accent. 
Here  you  see  its  secret  charms  unconsciously 
disclosed.  The  attraction  of  angling  for  all  the 
ages  of  man,  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  lies 
in  its  uncertainty.  'Tis  an  affair  of  luck. 

No  amount  of  preparation  in  the  matter  of 
rods  and  lines  and  hooks  and  lures  and  nets  and 
creels  can  change  its  essential  character.  No 
excellence  of  skill  in  casting  the  delusive  fly  or 
adjusting  the  tempting  bait  upon  the  hook  can 
make  the  result  secure.  You  may  reduce  the 
chances,  but  you  cannot  eliminate  them.  There 
are  a  thousand  points  at  which  fortune  may  in 
tervene.  The  state  of  the  weather,  the  height  of 
the  water,  the  appetite  of  the  fish,  the  presence 
or  absence  of  other  anglers — all  these  indeter 
minable  elements  enter  into  the  reckoning  of 
your  success.  There  is  no  combination  of  stars 
in  the  firmament  by  which  you  can  forecast  the 
piscatorial  future.  When  you  go  a-fishing,  you 
just  take  your  chances ;  you  offer  yourself  as  a 
candidate  for  anything  that  may  be  going ;  you 
try  your  luck. 

There'  are  certain  days  that  are  favourites 
among  anglers,  who  regard  them  as  propitious 


Fisherman's  Luck  13 

for  the  sport.  I  know  a  man  who  believes  that 
the  fish  always  rise  better  on  Sunday  than  on  any 
other  day  in  the  week.  He  complains  bitterly 
of  this  supposed  fact,  because  his  religious 
scruples  will  not  allow  him  to  take  advantage  of 
it.  He  confesses  that  he  has  sometimes  thought 
seriously  of  joining  the  Seventh-Day  Baptists. 

Among  the  Pennsylvania  Dutch,  in  the  Alle- 
ghany  Mountains,  I  have  found  a  curious  tradi 
tion  that  Ascension  Day  is  the  luckiest  in  the 
year  for  fishing.  On  that  morning  the  district 
school  is  apt  to  be  thinly  attended,  and  you  must 
be  on  the  stream  very  early  if  you  do  not  wish  to 
find  wet  footprints  on  the  stones  ahead  of  you. 

But  in  fact,  all  these  superstitions  about  for 
tunate  days  are  idle  and  presumptuous.  If 
there  were  such  days  in  the  calendar,  a  kind  and 
firm  Providence  would  never  permit  the  race  of 
man  to  discover  them.  It  would  rob  life  of 
one  of  its  principal  attractions,  and  make  fishing 
altogether  too  easy  to  be  interesting. 

Fisherman's  luck  is  so  notorious  that  it  has 
passed  into  a  proverb.  But  the  fault  with  that 
familiar  saying  is  that  it  is  too  short  and  too 
narrow  to  cover  half  the  variations  of  the 
angler's  possible  experience.  For  if  his  luck 


14  Fisherman's  Luck 

should  be  bad,  there  is  no  portion  of  his 
anatomy,  from  the  crown  of  his  head  to  the  soles 
of  his  feet,  that  may  not  be  thoroughly  wet. 
But  if  it  should  be  good,  he  may  receive  an  un 
earned  blessing  of  abundance  not  only  in  his 
basket,  but  also  in  his  head  and  his  heart,  his 
memory  and  his  fancy.  He  may  come  home 
from  some  obscure,  ill-named,  lovely  stream — 
some  Dry  Brook,  or  South-west  Branch  of 
Smith's  Run — with  a  creel  full  of  trout,  and  a 
mind  full  of  grateful  recollections  of  flowers 
that  seemed  to  bloom  for  his  sake,  and  birds  that 
sang  a  new,  sweet,  friendly  message  to  his  tired 
soul.  He  may  climb  down  to  "  Tommy's 
Rock  "  below  the  cliffs  at  Newport  (as  I  have 
done  many  a  day  with  my  lady  Greygown),  and, 
all  unnoticed  by  the  idle,  weary  promenaders  in 
the  path  of  fashion,  haul  in  a  basketful  of 
blackfish,  and  at  the  same  time  look  out  across 
the  shining  sapphire  waters  and  inherit  a  won 
drous  good  fortune  of  dreams — 

"  Have  glimpses  that  will  make  him  less  forlorn; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea, 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn." 

But  all  this,  you  must  remember,   depends 
upon  something  secret  and  incalculable,  some- 


Fisherman's  Luck 


thing  that  we  can  neither  command  nor  predict. 
It  is  an  affair  of  gift,  not  of  wages.  Fish  (and 
the  other  good  things  which  are  like  sauce  to 
the  catching  of  them)  cast  no  shadow  before. 
Water  is  the  emblem  of  instability.  No  one 
can  tell  what  he  shall  draw  out  of  it  until  he 
has  taken  in  his  line.  Herein  are  found  the  true 
charm  and  profit  of  angling  for  all  persons  of  a 
pure  and  childlike  mind. 

Look  at  those  two  venerable  gentlemen  float 
ing  in  a  skiff  upon  the  clear  waters  of  Lake 
George.  One  of  them  is  a  successful  statesman, 
an  ex-President  of  the  United  States,  a  lawyer 
versed  in  all  the  curious  eccentricities  of  the 
"  lawless  science  of  the  law."  The  other  is  a 
learned  doctor  of  medicine,  able  to  give  a  name 
to  all  diseases  from  which  men  have  imagined 
that  they  suffered,  and  to  invent  new  ones  for 
those  who  are  tired  of  vulgar  maladies.  But 
all  their  learning  is  forgotten,  their  cares  and 
controversies  are  laid  aside,  in  "  innocuous 
desuetude."  The  Summer  School  of  Sociology 
is  assembled.  The  Medical  Congress  is  in  ses 
sion.  But  they  care  not — no,  not  so  much  as 
the  value  of  a  single  live  bait.  The  sun  shines 
upon  them  with  a  fervent  heat,  but  it  irks  them 


1 6  Fisherman* s  Luck 

not.  The  rain  descends,  and  the  winds  blow 
and  beat  upon  them,  but  they  are  unmoved. 
They  are  securely  anchored  here  in  the  lee  of 
Sabbath-Day  Point. 

What  enchantment  binds  them  to  that  incon 
siderable  spot?  What  magic  fixes  their  eyes 
upon  the  point  of  a  fishing-rod,  as  if  it  were  the 
finger  of  destiny?  It  is  the  enchantment  of 
uncertainty ;  the  same  natural  magic  that  draws 
the  little  suburban  boys  in  the  spring  of  the  year, 
with  their  strings  and  pin-hooks,  around  the 
shallow  ponds  where  dace  and  redfins  hide ;  the 
same  irresistible  charm  that  fixes  a  row  of  city 
gamins,  like  ragged  and  disreputable  fish-crows, 
on  the  end  of  a  pier  where  blear-eyed  flounders 
sometimes  lurk  in  the  muddy  water.  Let  the 
philosopher  explain  it  as  he  will.  Let  the 
moralist  reprehend  it  as  he  chooses.  There  is 
nothing  that  attracts  human  nature  more  power 
fully  than  the  sport  of  tempting  the  unknown 
with  a  fishing-line. 

Those  ancient  anglers  have  set  out  upon  an 
exodus  from  the  tedious  realm  of  the  definite, 
the  fixed,  the  must-certainly-come-to-pass.  They 
are  on  a  holiday  in  the  free  country  of  perad- 
venture.  They  do  not  know  at  this  moment 


Fisherman's  Luck  17 

whether  the  next  turn  of  Fortune's  reel  will 
bring  up  a  perch  or  a  pickerel,  a  sunfish  or  a 
black  bass.  It  may  be  a  hideous  catfish  or  a 
squirming  eel,  or  it  may  be  a  lake-trout,  the 
grand  prize  in  the  Lake  George  lottery.  There 
they  sit,  those  grey-haired  lads,  full  of  hope,  yet 
equally  prepared  for  resignation;  taking  no 
thought  for  the  morrow,  and  ready  to  make  the 
best  of  to-day;  harmless  and  happy  players  at 
the  best  of  all  games  of  chance. 

"  In  other  words,"  I  hear  some  severe  and 
sour-complexioned  reader  say,  "  in  plain  lan 
guage,  they  are  a  pair  of  old  gamblers." 

Yes,  if  it  pleases  you  to  call  honest  men  by  a 
bad  name.  But  they  risk  nothing  that  is  not 
their  own;  and  if  they  lose,  they  are  not  im 
poverished.  They  desire  nothing  that  belongs 
to  other  men;  and  if  they  win,  no  one  is  robbed. 
If  all  gambling  were  like  that,  it  would  be  diffi 
cult  to  see  the  harm  in  it.  Indeed,  a  daring 
moralist  might  even  assert,  and  prove  by  argu 
ment,  that  so  innocent  a  delight  in  the  taking  of 
chances  is  an  aid  to  virtue. 

Do  you  remember  Martin  Luther's  reasoning 
on  the  subject  of  "  excellent  large  pike  "  ?  He 
maintained  that  God  would  never  have  created 


1 8  Fisherman's  Luck 

them  so  good  to  the  taste,  if  He  had  not  meant 
them  to  be  eaten.  And  for  the  same  reason  I 
conclude  that  this  world  would  never  have  been 
left  so  full  of  uncertainties,  nor  human  nature 
framed  so  as  to  find  a  peculiar  joy  and  exhilara 
tion  in  meeting  them  bravely  and  cheerfully,  if 
it  had  not  been  divinely  intended  that  most  of 
our  amusement  and  much  of  our  education 
should  come  from  this  source. 

"  Chance  "  is  a  disreputable  word,  I  know. 
It  is  supposed  by  many  pious  persons  to  be  im 
proper  and  almost  blasphemous  to  use  it.  But 
I  am  not  one  of  those  who  share  this  verbal 
prejudice.  I  am  inclined  rather  to  believe  that 
it  is  a  good  word  to  which  a  bad  reputation  has 
been  given.  I  feel  grateful  to  that  admirable 
"  psychologist  who  writes  like  a  novelist,"  Mr. 
William  James,  for  his  brilliant  defence  of  it. 
For  what  does  it  mean,  after  all,  but  that  some 
things  happen  in  a  certain  way  which  might  have 
happened  in  another  way?  Where  is  the  im 
morality,  the  irreverence,  the  atheism  in  such  a 
supposition?  Certainly  God  must  be  compe 
tent  to  govern  a  world  in  which  there  are  possi 
bilities  of  various  kinds,  just  as  well  as  one  in 
which  every  event  is  inevitably  determined  be- 


Fisherman's  Luck  19 

forehand.  St.  Peter  and  the  other  fishermen- 
disciples  on  the  Lake  of  Galilee  were  perfectly 
free  to  cast  their  net  on  either  side  of  the  ship. 
So  far  as  they  could  see,  so  far  as  anyone  could 
see,  it  was  a  matter  of  chance  where  they  chose 
to  cast  it.  But  it  was  not  until  they  let  it  down, 
at  the  Master's  word,  on  the  right  side  that  they 
had  good  luck.  And  not  the  least  element  of 
their  joy  in  the  draught  of  fishes  was  that  it 
brought  a  change  of  fortune. 

Leave  the  metaphysics  of  the  question  on  the 
table  for  the  present.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it 
is  plain  that  our  human  nature  is  adapted  to 
conditions  variable,  undetermined,  and  hidden 
from  our  view.  We  are  not  fitted  to  live  in  a 
world  where  a  -\-  b  always  equals  c,  and  there 
is  nothing  more  to  follow.  The  interest  of 
life's  equation  arrives  with  the  appearance  of 
x,  the  unknown  quantity.  A  settled,  unchange 
able,  clearly  foreseeable  order  of  things  does  not 
suit  our  constitution.  It  tends  to  melancholy 
and  a  fatty  heart.  Creatures  of  habit  we  are  un 
doubtedly  ;  but  it  is  one  of  our  most  fixed  habits 
to  be  fond  of  variety.  The  man  who  is  never 
surprised  does  not  know  the  taste  of  happiness, 


2O  Fisherman's  Luck 

and  unless  the  unexpected  sometimes  happens  to 
us,  we  are  most  grievously  disappointed. 

Much  of  the  tediousness  of  highly  civilised 
life  comes  from  its  smoothness  and  regularity. 
To-day  is  like  yesterday,  and  we  think  that  we 
can  predict  to-morrow.  Of  course  we  cannot 
really  do  so.  The  chances  are  still  there.  But 
we  have  covered  them  up  so  deeply  with  the 
artificialities  of  life  that  we  lose  sight  of  them. 
It  seems  as  if  everything  in  our  neat  little  world 
were  arranged,  and  provided  for,  and  reason 
ably  sure  to  come  to  pass.  The  best  way  of 
escape  from  this  T&dium  vitce  is  through  a  re 
creation  like  angling,  not  only  because  it  is  so 
evidently  a  matter  of  luck,  but  also  because  it 
tempts  us  into  a  wilder,  freer  life.  It  leads 
almost  inevitably  to  camping  out,  which  is  a 
wholesome  and  sanitary  imprudence. 

It  is  curious  and  pleasant,  to  my  apprehen 
sion,  to  observe  how  many  people  in  New  Eng 
land,  one  of  whose  States  is  called  "  the  land 
of  Steady  Habits,"  are  sensible  of  the  joy  of 
changing  them, — out  of  doors.  These  good 
folk  turn  out  from  their  comfortable  farm 
houses  and  their  snug  suburban  cottages  to  go 
a-gipsying  for  a  fortnight  among  the  mountains 


Fisherman's  Luck  21 

or  beside  the  sea.  You  see  their  white  tents 
gleaming  from  the  pine-groves  around  the  little 
lakes,  and  catch  glimpses  of  their  bathing-clothes 
drying  in  the  sun  on  the  wiry  grass  that  fringes 
the  sand-dunes.  Happy  fugitives  from  the 
bondage  of  routine !  They  have  found  out  that  a 
long  journey  is  not  necessary  to  a  good  vacation. 
You  may  reach  the  Forest  of  Arden  in  a  buck- 
board.  The  Fortunate  Isles  are  within  sailing 
distance  in  a  dory.  And  a  voyage  on  the  river 
Pactolus  is  open  to  anyone  who  can  paddle  a 
canoe. 

I  was  talking — or  rather  listening — with  a 
barber,  the  other  day,  in  the  sleepy  old  town 
of  Rivermouth.  He  told  me,  in  one  of  those 
easy  confidences  which  seem  to  make  the  razor 
run  more  smoothly,  that  it  had  been  the  custom 
of  his  family,  for  some  twenty  years  past,  to 
forsake  their  commodious  dwelling  on  Anchor 
Street  every  summer,  and  emigrate  six  miles, 
in  a  wagon,  to  Wallis  Sands,  where  they  spent 
the  month  of  August  very  merrily  under  canvas. 
Here  was  a  sensible  household  for  you !  They 
did  not  feel  bound  to  waste  a  year's  income  on  a 
four  weeks'  holiday.  They  were  not  of  those 
foolish  folk  who  run  across  the  sea,  carefully 


22 


Fisher  man'' s  Luck 


carrying  with  them  the  same  tiresome  mind  that 
worried  them  at  home.  They  got  a  change  of 
air  by  making  an  alteration  of  life.  They  es 
caped  from  the  land  of  Egypt  by  stepping  out 
into  the  wilderness  and  going  a-fishing. 

The  people  who  always  live  in  houses,  and 
sleep  on  beds,  and  walk  on  pavements,  and  buy 
their  food  from  butchers  and  bakers  and  gro 
cers,  are  not  the  most  blessed  inhabitants  of  this 
wide  and  various  earth.  The  circumstances  of 
their  existence  are  too  mathematical  and  secure 
for  perfect  contentment.  They  live  at  second 
or  third  hand.  They  are  boarders  in  the  world. 
Everything  is  done  for  them  by  somebody  else. 

It  is  almost  impossible  for  anything  very  in 
teresting  to  happen  to  them.  They  must  get 
their  excitement  out  of  the  newspapers,  reading 
of  the  hairbreadth  escapes  and  moving  accidents 
that  befall  people  in  real  life.  What  do  these 
tame  ducks  really  know  of  the  adventure  of 
living?  If  the  weather  is  bad,  they  are  snugly 
housed.  If  it  is  cold,  there  is  a  furnace  in  the 
cellar.  If  they  are  hungry,  the  shops  are  near 
at  hand.  It  is  all  as  dull,  flat,  stale,  and  unpro 
fitable  as  adding  up  a  column  of  figures.  They 
might  as  well  be  brought  up  in  an  incubator. 


Fisherman's  Luck  23 

But  when  man  abides  in  tents,  after  the  man 
ner  of  the  early  patriarchs,  the  face  of  the  world 
is  renewed.  The  vagaries  of  the  clouds  become 
significant.  You  watch  the  sky  with  a  lover's 
look,  eager  to  know  whether  it  will  smile  or 
frown.  When  you  lie  at  night  upon  your  bed 
of  boughs  and  hear  the  rain  pattering  on  the 
canvas  close  above  your  head,  you  wonder 
whether  it  is  a  storm  or  only  a  shower. 

The  rising  wind  shakes  the  tent-flaps.  Are 
the  pegs  well  driven  down  and  the  cords  firmly 
fastened?  You  fall  asleep  again  and  wake 
later,  to  hear  the  rain  drumming  still  more 
loudly  on  the  tight  cloth,  and  the  big  breeze 
snoring  through  the  forest,  and  the  waves 
plunging  along  the  beach.  A  stormy  day? 
Well,  you  must  cut  plenty  of  wood  and  keep 
the  camp-fire  glowing,  for  it  will  be  hard  to 
start  it  up  again,  if  you  let  it  get  too  low.  There 
is  little  use  in  fishing  or  hunting  in  such  a  storm. 
But  there  is  plenty  to  do  in  the  camp :  guns  to 
be  cleaned,  tackle  to  be  put  in  order,  clothes  to 
be  mended,  a  good  story  of  adventure  to  be  read, 
a  belated  letter  to  be  written  to  some  poor  wretch 
in  a  summer  hotel,  a  game  of  hearts  or  cribbage 
to  be  played,  or  a  hunting-trip  to  be  planned  for 


24  Fisherman's  Luck 

the  return  of  fair  weather.  The  tent  is  per 
fectly  dry.  A  little  trench  dug  around  it  carries 
off  the  surplus  water,  and  luckily  it  is  pitched 
with  the  side  to  the  lake,  so  that  you  get  the 
pleasant  heat  of  the  fire  without  the  unendurable 
smoke.  Cooking  in  the  rain  has  its  disadvan 
tages.  But  how  good  the  supper  tastes  when 
it  is  served  up  on  a  tin  plate,  with  an  empty  box 
for  a  table  and  a  roll  of  blankets  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed  for  a  seat ! 

A  day,  two  days,  three  days,  the  storm  may 
continue,  according  to  your  luck.  I  have  been 
out  in  the  woods  for  a  fortnight  without  a  drop 
of  rain  or  a  sign  of  dust.  Again,  I  have  tented 
on  the  shore  of  a  big  lake  for  a  week,  waiting 
for  an  obstinate  tempest  to  pass  by. 

Look  now,  just  at  nightfall :  is  there  not  a 
little  lifting  and  breaking  of  the  clouds  in  the 
west,  a  little  shifting  of  the  wind  toward  a  bet 
ter  quarter  ?  You  go  to  bed  with  cheerful  hopes. 
A  dozen  times  in  the  darkness  you  are  half 
awake,  and  listening  drowsily  to  the  sounds  of 
the  storm.  Are  they  waxing  or  waning  ?  Is  that 
louder  pattering  a  new  burst  of  rain,  or  is  it  only 
the  plumping  of  the  big  drops  as  they  are  shaken 
from  the  trees  ?  See,  the  dawn  has  come,  and 


Fisherman's  Luck  25 

the  grey  light  glimmers  through  the  canvas.  In 
a  little  while  you  will  know  your  fate. 

Look!  There  is^a  patch  of  bright  yellow  ra 
diance  on  the  peak  of  the  tent.  The  shadow  of 
a  leaf  dances  over  it.  The  sun  must  be  shining. 
Good  luck !  and  up  with  you,  for  it  is  a  glorious 
morning. 

The  woods  are  glistening  as  fresh  and  fair  as 
if  they  had  been  new-created  overnight.  The 
water  sparkles,  and  tiny  waves  are  dancing  and 
splashing  all  along  the  shore.  Scarlet  berries 
of  the  mountain-ash  hang  around  the  lake.  A 
pair  of  kingfishers  dart  back  and  forth  across 
the  bay,  in  flashes  of  living  blue.  A  black  eagle 
swings  silently  around  his  circle,  far  up  in  the 
cloudless  sky.  The  air  is  full  of  pleasant 
sounds,  but  there  is  no  noise.  The  world  is 
full  of  joyful  life,  but  there  is  no  crowd  and  no 
confusion.  There  is  no  factory  chimney  to 
darken  the  day  with  its  smoke,  no  trolley-car  to 
split  the  silence  with  its  shriek  and  smite  the 
indignant  ear  with  the  clanging  of  its  impudent 
bell.  No  lumberman's  axe  has  robbed  the  en 
circling  forests  of  their  glory  of  great  trees. 
No  fires  have  swept  over  the  hills  and  left  behind 
them  the  desolation  of  a  bristly  landscape.  All 


26  Fisherman's  Luck 

is  fresh  and  sweet,  calm  and  clear  and  bright. 

'Twas  rather  a  rude  jest  of  Nature,  that  tem 
pest  of  yesterday.  But  if  you  have  taken  it  in 
good  part,  you  are  all  the  more  ready  for  her 
caressing  mood  to-day.  And  now  you  must  be 
off  to  get  your  dinner — not  to  order  it  at  a  shop, 
but  to  look  for  it  in  the  woods  and  waters.  You 
are  ready  to  do  your  best  with  rod  or  gun. 
You  will  use  all  the  skill  you  have  as  hunter  or 
fisherman.  But  what  you  shall  find,  and  whe 
ther  you  shall  subsist  on  bacon  and  biscuit,  or 
feast  on  trout  and  partridges,  is,  after  all,  a 
matter  of  luck. 

I  profess  that  it  appears  to  me  not  only  plea 
sant,  but  also  salutary,  to  be  in  this  condition. 
It  brings  us  home  to  the  plain  realities  of  life; 
it  teaches  us  that  a  man  ought  to  work  before 
he  eats ;  it  reminds  us  that,  after  he  has  done  all 
he  can,  he  must  still  rely  upon  a  mysterious 
bounty  for  his  daily  bread.  It  says  to  us,  in 
homely  and  familiar  words,  that  life  was  meant 
to  be  uncertain,  that  no  man  can  tell  what  a  day 
will  bring  forth,  and  that  it  is  the  part  of  wis 
dom  to  be  prepared  for  disappointments  and 
grateful  for  all  kinds  of  small  mercies. 

There  is  a  story  in  that  fragrant  book,  The 


Fisherman's  Luck  27 

Little  Flowers  of  St.  Francis,  which  I  wish  to 
transcribe  here,  without  tying  a  moral  to  it,  lest 
anyone  should  accuse  me  of  preaching. 

"  Hence  [says  the  quaint  old  chronicler],  hav 
ing  assigned  to  his  companions  the  other  parts 
of  the  world,  St.  Francis,  taking  Brother  Maxi- 
mus  as  his  comrade,  set  forth  toward  the  pro 
vince  of  France.  And  coming  one  day  to  a 
certain  town,  and  being  very  hungry,  they 
begged  their  bread  as  they  went,  according  to 
the  rule  of  their  order,  for  the  love  of  God. 
And  St.  Francis  went  through  one  quarter  of 
the  town,  and  Brother  Maximus  through  an 
other.  But  forasmuch  as  St.  Francis  was  a 
man  mean  and  low  of  stature,  and  hence  was 
reputed  a  vile  beggar  by  such  as  knew  him  not, 
he  only  received  a  few  scanty  crusts  and  mouth- 
fuls  of  dry  bread.  But  to  Brother  Maximus, 
who  was  large  and  well  favoured,  were  given 
good  pieces  and  big,  and  an  abundance  of  bread, 
yea,  whole  loaves.  Having  thus  begged,  they 
met  together  without  the  town  to  eat,  at  a  place 
where  there  was  a  clear  spring  and  a  fair  large 
stone,  upon  which  each  spread  forth  the  gifts 
that  he  had  received.  And  St.  Francis,  seeing 


28  Fisherman's  Luck 

that  the  pieces  of  bread  begged  by  Brother 
Maximus  were  bigger  and  better  than  his  own, 
rejoiced  greatly,  saying,  '  Oh,  Brother  Maxi 
mus,  we  are  not  worthy  of  so  great  a  treasure.' 
As  he  repeated  these  words  many  times,  Bro 
ther  Maximus  made  answer :  '  Father,  how  can 
you  talk  of  treasures  when  there  is  such  great 
poverty  and  such  lack  of  all  things  needful? 
Here  is  neither  napkin  nor  knife,  neither  board 
nor  trencher,  neither  house  nor  table,  neither 
man-servant  nor  maid-servant.'  St.  Francis 
replied :  '  And  this  is  what  I  reckon  a  great  trea 
sure,  where  naught  is  made  ready  by  human 
industry,  but  all  that  is  here  is  prepared  by 
Divine  Providence,  as  is  plainly  set  forth  in 
the  bread  which  we  have  begged,  in  the  table  of 
fair  stone,  and  in  the  spring  of  clear  water. 
And  therefore  I  would  that  we  should  pray  to 
God  that  He  teach  us  with  all  our  hearts  to  love 
the  treasure  of  holy  poverty,  which  is  so  noble  a 
thing,  and  whose  servant  is  God  the  Lord.'  " 

I  know  of  but  one  fairer  description  of  a 
repast  in  the  open  air ;  and  that  is  where  we  are 
told  how  certain  poor  fishermen,  coming  in  very 
weary  after  a  night  of  toil  (and  one  of  them 


Fisherman's  Luck  29 

very  wet  after  swimming  ashore),  found  their 
Master  standing  on  the  bank  of  the  lake  waiting 
for  them.  But  it  seems  that  He  must  have  been 
busy  on  their  behalf  while  He  was  waiting;  for 
there  was  a  bright  fire  of  coals  burning  on  the 
shore,  and  a  goodly  fish  broiling  thereon,  and 
bread  to  eat  with  it.  And  when  the  Master 
had  asked  them  about  their  fishing,  He  said, 
"  Come,  now,  and  get  your  breakfast."  So 
they  sat  down  around  the  fire,  and  with  His  own 
hands  He  served  them  with  the  bread  and  the 
fish. 

Of  all  the  banquets  that  have  ever  been  given 
upon  earth,  that  is  the  one  in  which  I  would 
rather  have  had  a  share. 

But  it  is  now  time  that  we  should  return  to 
our  fishing.  And  let  us  observe  with  gratitude 
that  almost  all  of  the  pleasures  that  are  connected 
with  this  pursuit — its  accompaniments  and  vari 
ations,  which  run  along  with  the  tune  and  weave 
an  embroidery  of  delight  around  it — have  an 
accidental  and  gratuitous  quality  about  them. 
They  are  not  to  be  counted  upon  beforehand. 
They  are  like  something  that  is  thrown  into  a 
purchase  by  a  generous  and  open-handed  dealer, 


Fisherman's  Luck 


to  make  us  pleased  with  our  bargain  and  inclined 
to  come  back  to  the  same  shop. 

If  I  knew,  for  example,  before  setting  out 
for  a  day  on  the  brook,  precisely  what  birds  I 
should  see,  and  what  pretty  little  scenes  in  the 
drama  of  woodland  life  were  to  be  enacted  be 
fore  my  eyes,  the  expedition  would  lose  more 
than  half  its  charm.  But,  in  fact,  it  is  almost 
entirely  a  matter  of  luck,  and  that  is  why  it 
never  grows  tiresome. 

The  ornithologist  knows  pretty  well  where  to 
look  for  the  birds,  and  he  goes  directly  to  the 
places  where  he  can  find  them,  and  proceeds  to 
study  them  intelligently  and  systematically.  But 
the  angler  who  idles  down  the  stream  takes  them 
as  they  come,  and  all  his  observations  have  a 
flavour  of  surprise  in  them. 

He  hears  a  familiar  song,  —  one  that  he  has 
often  heard  at  a  distance,  but  never  iden 
tified,  —  a  loud,  cheery,  rustic  cadence  sound 
ing  from  a  low  pine-tree  close  beside  him. 
He  looks  up  carefully  through  the  needles  and 
discovers  a  hooded  warbler,  a  tiny,  restless  crea 
ture,  dressed  in  green  and  yellow,  with  two 
white  feathers  in  its  tail,  like  the  ends  of  a  sash, 
and  a  glossy  little  black  bonnet  drawn  closely 


Fisherman's  Luck  31 

about  its  golden  head.  He  will  never  forget 
that  song  again.  It  will  make  the  woods  seem 
home-like  to  him,  many  a  time,  as  he  hears  it 
ringing  through  the  afternoon,  like  the  call  of 
a  small  country  girl  playing  at  hide-and-seek: 
"  See  me;  here  I  be." 

Another  day  he  sits  down  on  a  mossy  log 
beside  a  cold,  trickling  spring  to  eat  his  lunch. 
It  has  been  a  barren  day  for  birds.  Perhaps 
he  has  fallen  into  the  fault  of  pursuing  his  sport 
too  intensely,  and  tramped  along  the  stream 
looking  for  nothing  but  fish.  Perhaps  this  part 
of  the  grove  has  really  been  deserted  by  its 
feathered  inhabitants,  scared  away  by  a  prowl 
ing  hawk  or  driven  out  by  nest-hunters.  But 
now,  without  notice,  the  luck  changes.  A  sur 
prise-party  of  redstarts  breaks  into  full  play 
around  him.  All  through  the  dark-green 
shadow  of  the  hemlocks  they  flash  like  little 
candles — candelitas,  the  Cubans  call  them.  Their 
brilliant  markings  of  orange  and  black,  and 
their  fluttering,  airy,  graceful  movements,  make 
them  most  welcome  visitors.  There  is  no  bird 
in  the  bush  easier  to  recognise  or  pleasanter  to 
watch.  They  run  along  the  branches  and  dart 
and  tumble  through  the  air  in  fearless  chase  of 


32  Fisherman's  Luck 

invisible  flies  and  moths.  All  the  time  they  keep 
unfolding  and  furling  their  rounded  tails, 
spreading  them  out  and  waving  them  and  clos 
ing  them  suddenly,  just  as  the  Cuban  girls  man 
age  their  fans.  In  fact,  the  redstarts  are  the 
tiny  fantail  pigeons  of  the  forest. 

There  are  other  things  about  the  birds,  be 
sides  their  musical  talents  and  their  good  looks, 
that  the  fisherman  has  a  chance  to  observe  on 
his  lucky  days.  He  may  see  something  of  their 
courage  and  their  devotion  to  their  young. 

I  suppose  a  bird  is  the  bravest  creature  that 
lives,  in  spite  of  its  natural  timidity.  From 
which  we  may  learn  that  true  courage  is  not  in 
compatible  with  nervousness,  and  that  heroism 
does  not  mean  the  absence  of  fear,  but  the  con 
quest  of  it.  Who  does  not  remember  the  first 
time  that  he  ever  came  upon  a  hen-partridge 
with  her  brood,  as  he  was  strolling  through  the 
woods  in  June?  How  splendidly  the  old  bird 
forgets  herself  in  her  efforts  to  defend  and  hide 
her  young ! 

Smaller  birds  are  no  less  daring.  One  even 
ing  last  summer  I  was  walking  up  the  Risti- 
gouche  from  Camp  Harmony  to  fish  for  salmon 
at  Mowett's  Rock,  where  my  canoe  was  waiting 


Fisherman's  Luck  33 

for  me.  As  I  stepped  out  from  a  thicket  on  to 
the  shingly  bank  of  the  river,  a  spotted  sand 
piper  teetered  along  before  me,  followed  by  three 
young  ones.  Frightened  at  first,  the  mother 
flew  out  a  few  feet  over  the  water.  But  the 
piperlings  could  not  fly,  having  no  feathers ;  and 
they  crept  under  a  crooked  log.  I  rolled  the  log 
over  very  gently  and  took  one  of  the  cowering 
creatures  into  my  hand — a  tiny,  palpitating 
scrap  of  life,  covered  with  soft  grey  down,  and 
peeping  shrilly,  like  a  Liliputian  chicken.  And 
now  the  mother  was  transformed.  Her  fear 
was  changed  into  fury.  She  was  a  bully,  a 
fighter,  an  Amazon  in  feathers.  She  flew  at  me 
with  loud  cries,  dashing  herself  almost  into  my 
face.  I  was  a  tyrant,  a  robber,  a  kidnapper, 
and  she  called  heaven  to  witness  that  she  would 
never  give  up  her  offspring  without  a  struggle. 
Then  she  changed  her  tactics  and  appealed  to  my 
baser  passions.  She  fell  to  the  ground  and  flut 
tered  around  me  as  if  her  wing  were  broken. 
"  Look !  "  she  seemed  to  say,  "  I  am  bigger  than 
that  poor  little  baby.  If  you  must  eat  some 
thing,  eat  me !  My  wing  is  lame.  I  can't  fly. 
You  can  easily  catch  me.  Let  that  little  bird 
go !  "  And  so  I  did ;  and  the  whole  family  dis- 


34  Fisherman's  Luck 

appeared  in  the  bushes  as  if  by  magic.  I  won 
dered  whether  the  mother  was  saying  to  herself, 
after  the  manner  of  her  sex,  that  men  are  stupid 
things,  after  all,  and  no  match  for  the  clever 
ness  of  a  female  who  stoops  to  deception  in  a 
righteous  cause. 

Now,  that  trivial  experience  was  what  I  call 
a  piece  of  good  luck — for  me,  and,  in  the  event, 
for  the  sandpiper.  But  it  is  doubtful  whether 
it  would  be  quite  so  fresh  and  pleasant  in  the 
remembrance,  if  it  had  not  also  fallen  to  my 
lot  to  take  two  uncommonly  good  salmon  on  that 
same  evening,  in  a  dry  season. 

Never  believe  a  fisherman  when  he  tells  you 
that  he  does  not  care  about  the  fish  he  catches. 
He  may  say  that  he  angles  only  for  the  pleasure 
of  being  out-of-doors,  and  that  he  is  just  as 
well  contented  when  he  takes  nothing  as  when 
he  makes  a  good  catch.  He  may  think  so,  but 
it  is  not  true.  He  is  not  telling  a  deliberate 
falsehood.  He  is  only  assuming  an  unconscious 
pose,  and  indulging  in  a  delicate  bit  of  self- 
flattery.  Even  if  it  were  true,  it  would  not  be 
at  all  to  his  credit. 

Watch  him  on  that  lucky  day  when  he  comes 
home  with  a  full  basket  of  trout  on  his  shoulder, 


Fisherman's  Luck  35 

or  a  quartette  of  silver  salmon  covered  with 
green  branches  in  the  bottom  of  the  canoe.  His 
face  is  broader  than  it  was  when  he  went  out, 
and  there  is  sparkle  of  triumph  in  his  eye.  "  It 
is  naught,  it  is  naught,"  he  says,  in  modest  de 
preciation  of  his  triumph.  But  you  shall  see 
that  he  lingers  fondly  about  the  place  where  the 
fish  are  displayed  upon  the  grass,  and  does  not 
fail  to  look  carefully  at  the  scales  when  they 
are  weighed,  and  has  an  attentive  ear  for  the 
comments  of  admiring  spectators.  You  shall 
find,  moreover,  that  he  is  not  unwilling  to  nar 
rate  the  story  of  the  capture — how  the  big  fish 
rose  short,  four  times,  to  four  different  flies,  and 
finally  took  a  small  Black  Dose,  and  played  all 
over  the  pool,  and  ran  down  a  terribly  stiff  rapid 
to  the  next  pool  below,  and  sulked  for  twenty 
minutes,  and  had  to  be  stirred  up  with  stones, 
and  made  such  a  long  fight  that,  when  he  came 
in  at  last,  the  hold  of  the  hook  was  almost  worn 
through,  and  it  fell  out  of  his  mouth  as  he 
touched  the  short.  Listen  to  this  tale  as  it  is 
told,  with  endless  variations,  by  every  man  who 
has  brought  home  a  fine  fish,  and  you  will  per 
ceive  that  the  fisherman  does  care  for  his  luck, 
after  all. 


36  Fisherman's  Luck 

And  why  not  ?  I  am  no  friend  to  the  people 
who  receive  the  bounties  of  Providence  without 
visible  gratitude.  When  the  sixpence  falls  into 
your  hat,  you  may  laugh.  When  the  messen 
ger  of  an  unexpected  blessing  takes  you  by  the 
hand  and  lifts  you  up  and  bids  you  walk,  you 
may  leap  and  run  and  sing  for  joy,  even  as  the 
lame  man,  whom  St.  Peter  healed,  skipped 
piously  and  rejoiced  aloud  as  he  passed  through 
the  Beautiful  Gate  of  the  Temple.  There  is  no 
virtue  in  solemn  indifference.  Joy  is  just  as 
much  a  duty  as  beneficence  is.  Thankfulness 
is  the  other  side  of  mercy. 

When  you  have  good  luck  in  anything,  you 
ought  to  be  glad.  Indeed,  if  you  are  not  glad, 
you  are  not  really  lucky. 

But  boasting  and  self-glorification  I  would 
have  excluded,  and  most  of  all  from  the  beha 
viour  of  the  angler.  He,  more  than  other  men, 
is  dependent  for  his  success  upon  the  favour  of 
an  unseen  benefactor.  Let  his  skill  and  indus 
try  be  never  so  great,  he  can  do  nothing  unless 
la  bonne  chance  comes  to  him. 

I  was  once  fishing  on  a  fair  little  river,  the 
P'tit  Saguenay,  with  two  excellent  anglers  and 
pleasant  companions,  H.  E.  G and  C.  S. 


Fisherman's  Luck  37 

D .     They  had  done  all  that  was  humanly 

possible  to  secure  good  sport.  The  stream  had 
been  well  preserved.  They  had  boxes  full  of 
beautiful  flies,  and  casting-lines  imported  from 
England,  and  a  rod  for  every  fish  in  the  river. 
But  the  weather  was  "  dour,"  and  the  water 
"  drumly,"  and  every  day  the  lumbermen  sent 
a  "  drive  "  of  ten  thousand  spruce  logs  rushing 
down  the  flooded  stream.  For  three  days  we 
had  not  seen  a  salmon,  and  on  the  fourth,  de 
spairing,  we  went  down  to  angle  for  sea-trout  in 
the  tide  of  the  greater  Saguenay.  There,  in 
the  salt  water,  where  men  say  the  salmon  never 

take  the  fly,  H.  E.  G ,  fishing  with  a  small 

trout-rod,  a  poor,  short  line,  and  an  ancient  red 
ibis  of  the  common  kind,  rose  and  hooked  a 
lordly  salmon  of  at  least  five-and-thirty  pounds. 
Was  not  this  pure  luck? 

Pride  is  surely  the  most  unbecoming  of  all 
vices  in  a  fisherman.  For  though  intelligence 
and  practice  and  patience  and  genius,  and  many 
other  noble  things  which  modesty  forbids  him 
to  mention,  enter  into  his  pastime,  so  that  it  is, 
as  Izaak  Walton  has  firmly  mantained,  an  art; 
yet,  because  fortune  still  plays  a  controlling  hand 
in  the  game,  its  net  results  should  never  be 


38  Fisherman's  Luck 

spoken  of  with  a  haughty  and  vain  spirit.  Let 
not  the  angler  imitate  Timoleon,  who  boasted 
of  his  luck  and  lost  it.  It  is  tempting  Provi 
dence  to  print  the  record  of  your  wonderful 
catches  in  the  sporting  newspapers;  or  at  least, 
if  it  must  be  done,  there  should  stand  at  the  head 
of  the  column  some  humble,  thankful  motto,  like 
"  Non  nobis,  Domine"  Even  Father  Izaak, 
when  he  has  a  fish  on  his  line,  says,  with  a  due 
sense  of  human  limitations,  "  There  is  a  trout 
now,  and  a  good  one  too,  if  I  can  but  hold 
him!" 

This  reminds  me  that  we  left  H.  E.  G ,  a 

few  sentences  back,  playing  his  unexpected  sal 
mon,  on  a  trout-rod,  in  the  Saguenay.  Four 
times  that  great  fish  leaped  into  the  air;  twice 
he  suffered  the  pliant  reed  to  guide  him  toward 
the  shore,  and  twice  ran  out  again  to  deeper 
water.  Then  his  spirit  awoke  within  him:  he 
bent  the  rod  like  a  willow  wand,  dashed  toward 
the  middle  of  the  river,  broke  the  line  as  if  it 
had  been  pack-thread,  and  sailed  triumphantly 
away  to  join  the  white  porpoises  that  were  tum 
bling  in  the  tide.  "  Whe-e-ew,"  they  said, 
"  whe-e-ew!  psha-a-aw! "  blowing  out  their 
breath  in  long,  soft  sighs  as  they  rolled  about 


Fisherman's  Luck  39 

like  huge  snowballs  in  the  black  water.  But 

what  did  H.  E.  G say?  He  sat  him  quietly 

down  upon  a  rock  and  reeled  in  the  remnant  of 
his  line,  uttering  these  remarkable  and  Christian 
words :  "  Those  porpoises,"  said  he,  "  describe 
the  situation  rather  mildly.  But  it  was  good 
fun  while  it  lasted." 

Again  I  remembered  a  saying  of  Walton: 
"  Well,  Scholar,  you  must  endure  worse  luck 
sometimes,  or  you  will  never  make  a  good 
angler." 

Or  a  good  man,  either,  I  am  sure.  For  he 
who  knows  only  how  to  enjoy,  and  not  to 
endure,  is  ill-fitted  to  go  down  the  stream  of  life 
through  such  a  world  as  this. 

I  would  not  have  you  to  suppose,  gentle 
reader,  that  in  discoursing  of  fisherman's  luck 
I  have  in  mind  only  those  things  which  may  be 
taken  with  a  hook.  It  is  a  parable  of  human 
experience.  I  have  been  thinking,  for  instance, 
of  Walton's  life  as  well  as  of  his  angling:  of 
the  losses  and  sufferings  that  he,  the  firm  Royal 
ist,  endured  when  the  Commonwealth  men  came 
marching  into  London  town;  of  the  consoling 
days  that  were  granted  to  him,  in  troublous 
times,  on  the  banks  of  the  Lea  and  the  Dove  and 


40  Fisherman's  Luck 

the  New  River,  and  the  good  friends  that  he 
made  there,  with  whom  he  took  sweet  counsel  in 
adversity ;  of  the  little  children  who  played  in  his 
house  for  a  few  years,  and  then  were  called 
away  into  the  silent  land  where  he  could  hear 
their  voices  no  longer.  I  was  thinking  how 
quietly  and  peaceably  he  lived  through  it  all,  not 
complaining  nor  desponding,  but  trying  to  do 
his  work  well,  whether  he  was  keeping  a  shop  or 
writing  books,  and  seeking  to  prove  himself  an 
honest  man  and  a  cheerful  companion,  and 
never  scorning  to  take  with  a  thankful  heart 
such  small  comforts  and  recreations  as  came  to 
him. 

It  is  a  plain,  homely,  old-fashioned  medita 
tion,  reader,  but  not  unprofitable.  When  I  talk 
to  you  of  fisherman's  luck,  I  do  not  forget  that 
there  are  deeper  things  behind  it.  I  remember 
that  what  we  call  our  fortunes,  good  or  ill,  are 
but  the  wise  dealings  and  distributions  of  a 
Wisdom  higher,  and  a  Kindness  greater,  than 
our  own.  And  I  suppose  that  their  meaning  is 
that  we  should  learn,  by  all  the  uncertainties  of 
our  life,  even  the  smallest,  how  to  be  brave  and 
steady  and  temperate  and  hopeful,  whatever 
comes,  because  we  believe  that  behind  it  all  there 


Fisherman's  Luck  41 

lies  a  purpose  of  good,  and  over  it  all  there 
watches  a  providence  of  blessing. 

In  the  school  of  life  many  branches  of  know 
ledge  are  taught.  But  the  only  philosophy  that 
amounts  to  anything,  after  all,  is  just  the  secret 
of  making  friends  with  our  luck. 


'The  Thrilling  Moment 


"  In  angling,  as  in  all  other  recreations  into  which  ex 
citement  enters,  we  have  to  be  on  our  guard,  so  that  we 
can  at  any  moment  throw  a  weight  of  self-control  into  the 
scale  against  misfortune;  and  happily  we  can  study  to  some 
purpose,  both  to  increase  our  pleasure  in  success  and  to 
lessen  our  distress  caused  by  what  goes  ill.  It  is  not  only 
in  cases  of  great  disasters,  however,  that  the  angler  needs 
self-control.  He  is  perpetually  called  upon  to  use  it  to 
withstand  small  exasperations." — SIR  EDWARD  GREY: 
Fly-Fishing. 

EVERY  moment  of  life,  I  suppose,  is  more 
or  less  of  a  turning-point.  Opportuni 
ties  are  swarming  around  us  all  the  time,  thicker 
than  gnats  at  sundown.  We  walk  through  a 
cloud  of  chances,  and  if  we  were  always  con 
scious  of  them  they  would  worry  us  almost  to 
death. 

But    happily    our    sense    of    uncertainty     is 

soothed  and  cushioned  by  habit,  so  that  we  can 

live  comfortably  with  it.     Only  now  and  then, 

by  way  of  special  excitement,  it  starts  up  wide 

42 


The  Thrilling  Moment  43 

awake.  We  perceive  how  delicately  our  for 
tune  is  poised  and  balanced  on  the  pivot  of  a 
single  incident.  We  get  a  peep  at  the  oscillating 
needle,  and,  because  we  have  happened  to  see  it 
tremble,  we  call  our  experience  a  crisis. 

The  meditative  angler  is  not  exempt  from 
these  sensational  periods.  There  are  times  when 
all  the  uncertainty  of  his  chosen  pursuit  seems 
to  condense  itself  into  one  big  chance,  and  stand 
out  before  him  like  a  salmon  on  the  top  wave  of 
a  rapid.  He  sees  that  his  luck  hangs  by  a  single 
strand,  and  he  cannot  tell  whether  it  will  hold 
or  break.  This  is  his  thrilling  moment,  and  he 
never  forgets  it. 

Mine  came  to  me  in  the  autumn  of  1894,  on 
the  banks  of  the  Unpronounceable  River,  in  the 
Province  of  Quebec.  It  was  the  last  day  of 
the  open  season  for  ouananiche,  and  we  had  set 
our  hearts  on  catching  some  good  fish  to  take 
home  with  us.  We  walked  up  from  the  mouth 
of  the  river,  four  preposterously  long  and  rough 
miles,  to  the  famous  fishing-pool,  "  la  place  de 
peche  a  Boivin"  It  was  a  noble  day  for  walk 
ing  ;  the  air  was  clear  and  crisp,  and  all  the  hills 
around  us  were  glowing  with  the  crimson  foli 
age  of  those  little  bushes  which  God  created  to 


44  Ike  Thrilling  Moment 

make  burned  lands  look  beautiful.  The  trail 
ended  in  a  precipitous  gully,  down  which  we 
scrambled  with  high  hopes,  and  fishing-rods  un 
broken,  only  to  find  that  the  river  was  in  a 
condition  which  made  angling  absurd  if  not 
impossible. 

There  must  have  been  a  cloud-burst  among 
the  mountains,  for  the  water  was  coming  down 
in  flood.  The  stream  was  bank- full,  gurgling 
and  eddying  out  among  the  bushes,  and  rushing 
over  the  shoal  where  the  fish  used  to  lie,  in  a 
brown  torrent  ten  feet  deep.  Our  last  day  with 
the  land-locked  salmon  seemed  destined  to  be  a 
failure,  and  we  must  wait  eight  months  before 
we  could  have  another.  There  were  three  of 
us  in  the  disappointment,  and  we  shared  it 
according  to  our  temperaments. 

Paul  virtuously  resolved  not  to  give  up  while 
there  was  a  chance  left,  and  wandered  down 
stream  to  look  for  an  eddy  where  he  might  pick 
up  a  small  fish.  Ferdinand,  our  guide,  resigned 
himself  without  a  sigh  to  the  consolation  of  eat 
ing  blueberries,  which  he  always  did  with  great 
cheerfulness.  But  I,  being  more  cast  down 
than  either  of  my  comrades,  sought  out  a  con 
venient  seat  among  the  rocks,  and,  adapting  my 


The  Thrilling  Moment  45 

anatomy  as  well  as  possible  to  the  irregularities 
of  nature's  upholstery,  pulled  from  my  pocket 
An  Amateur  Angler's  Days  in  Dove  Dale,  and 
settled  down  to  read  myself  into  a  Christian 
frame  of  mind. 

Before  beginning,  my  eyes  roved  sadly  over 
the  pool  once  more.  It  was  but  a  casual  glance. 
It  lasted  only  for  an  instant.  But  in  that  for 
tunate  fragment  of  time  I  distinctly  saw  the 
broad  tail  of  a  big  ouananiche  rise  and  disappear 
in  the  swift  water  at  the  very  head  of  the  pool. 

Immediately  the  whole  aspect  of  affairs  was 
changed.  Despondency  vanished,  and  the  river 
glittered  with  the  beams  of  rising  hope. 

Such  is  the  absurd  disposition  of  some  ang 
lers.  They  never  see  a  fish  without  believing 
that  they  can  catch  him ;  but  if  they  see  no  fish, 
they  are  inclined  to  think  that  the  river  is  empty 
and  the  world  hollow. 

I  said  nothing  to  my  companions.  It  would 
have  been  unkind  to  disturb  them  with  expecta 
tions  which  might  never  be  realised.  My  imme 
diate  duty  was  to  get  within  casting  distance  of 
that  salmon  as  soon  as  possible. 

The  way  along  the  shore  of  the  pool  was  dif 
ficult.  The  bank  was  very  steep,  and  the  rocks 


46  The  Thrilling  Moment 

by  the  river's  edge  were  broken  and  glibbery. 
Presently  I  came  to  a  sheer  wall  of  stone,  per 
haps  thirty  feet  high,  rising  directly  from  the 
deep  water. 

There  was  a  tiny  ledge  or  crevice  running  part 
of  the  way  across  the  face  of  this  wall,  and  by 
this  four-inch  path  I  edged  along,  holding  my 
rod  in  one  hand,  and  clinging  affectionately  with 
the  other  to  such  clumps  of  grass  and  little 
bushes  as  I  could  find.  There  was  one  small 
huckleberry  plant  to  which  I  had  a  particular 
attachment.  It  was  fortunately  a  firm  little 
bush,  and  as  I  held  fast  to  it  I  remembered 
Tennyson's  poem  which  begins 

"  Flower  in  the  crannied  wall," 

and  reflected  that  if  I  should  succeed  in  plucking 
out  this  flower,  "  root  and  all,"  it  would  pro 
bably  result  in  an  even  greater  increase  of  know 
ledge  than  the  poet  contemplated. 

The  ledge  in  the  rock  now  came  to  an  end. 
But  below  me  in  the  pool  there  was  a  sunken 
reef;  and  on  this  reef  a  long  log  had  caught, 
with  one  end  sticking  out  of  the  water,  within 
jumping  distance.  It  was  the  only  chance.  To 


The  Thrilling  Moment  47 

go  back  would  have  been  dangerous.  An  ang 
ler  with  a  large  family  dependent  upon  him  for 
support  has  no  right  to  incur  unnecessary  perils. 

Besides,  the  fish  was  waiting  for  me  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  pool ! 

So  I  jumped;  landed  on  the  end  of  the  log; 
felt  it  settle  slowly  down;  ran  along  it  like  a 
small  boy  on  a  seesaw,  and  leaped  off  into  shal 
low  water  just  as  the  log  rolled  from  the  ledge 
and  lunged  out  into  the  stream. 

It  went  wallowing  through  the  pool  and  down 
the  rapid  like  a  playful  hippopotamus.  I 
watched  it  with  interest  and  congratulated  my 
self  that  I  was  no  longer  embarked  upon  it.  On 
that  craft  a  voyage  down  the  Unpronounceable 
River  would  have  been  short  but  far  from 
merry.  The  "  all  ashore  "  bell  was  not  rung 
early  enough.  I  just  got  off,  with  not  half  a 
second  to  spare. 

But  now  all  was  well,  for  I  was  within  reach 
of  the  fish.  A  little  scrambling  over  the  rocks 
brought  me  to  a  point  where  I  could  easily  cast 
over  him.  He  was  lying  in  a  swift,  smooth, 
narrow  channel  between  two  large  stones.  It 
was  a  snug  resting-place,  and  no  doubt  he  would 


The  Thrilling  Moment 


remain  there  for  some  time.  So  I  took  out  my 
fly-book  and  prepared  to  angle  for  him  accord 
ing  to  the  approved  rules  of  the  art. 

Nothing  is  more  foolish  in  sport  than  the 
habit  of  precipitation.  And  yet  it  is  a  fault  to 
which  I  am  singularly  subject.  As  a  boy,  in 
Brooklyn,  I  never  came  in  sight  of  the  Capitoline 
Skating  Pond,  after  a  long  ride  in  the  horse- 
cars,  without  breaking  into  a  run  along  the 
board  walk,  buckling  on  my  skates  in  a  furious 
hurry,  and  flinging  myself  impetuously  upon  the 
ice,  as  if  I  feared  that  it  would  melt  away  before 
I  could  reach  it.  Now  this,  I  confess,  is  a 
grievous  defect,  which  advancing  years  have  not 
entirely  cured ;  and  I  found  it  necessary  to  take 
myself  firmly,  as  it  were,  by  the  mental  coat- 
collar,  and  resolve  not  to  spoil  the  chance  of 
catching  the  only  ouananiche  in  the  Unpro 
nounceable  River  by  undue  haste  in  fishing  for 
him. 

I  carefully  tested  a  brand-new  leader,  and  at 
tached  it  to  the  line  with  great  deliberation  and 
the  proper  knot.  Then  I  gave  my  whole  mind 
to  the  important  question  of  a  wise  selection  of 
flies. 

It  is  astonishing  how  much  time  and  mental 


The  Thrilling  Moment  49 

anxiety  a  man  can  spend  on  an  apparently  sim 
ple  question  like  this.  When  you  are  buying 
flies  in  a  shop  it  seems  as  if  you  never  had  half 
enough.  You  keep  on  picking  out  a  half-dozen 
of  each  new  variety  as  fast  as  the  enticing  sales 
man  shows  them  to  you.  You  stroll  through 
the  streets  of  Montreal  or  Quebec  and  drop  in 
at  every  fishing-tackle  dealer's  to  see  whether 
you  can  find  a  few  more  good  flies.  Then, 
when  you  come  to  look  over  your  collection  at 
the  critical  moment  on  the  bank  of  a  stream, 
it  seems  as  if  you  had  ten  times  too  many.  And, 
in  spite  of  all,  the  precise  fly  that  you  need  is 
not  there. 

You  select  a  couple  that  you  think  fairly 
good,  lay  them  down  beside  you  in  the  grass, 
and  go  on  looking  through  the  book  for  some 
thing  better.  Failing  to  satisfy  yourself,  you 
turn  to  pick  up  those  that  you  have  laid  out,  and 
find  that  they  have  mysteriously  vanished  from 
the  face  of  the  earth. 

Then  you  struggle  with  naughty  words  and 
relapse  into  a  condition  of  mental  palsy. 

Precipitation  is  a  fault.  But  deliberation,  for 
a  person  of  precipitate  disposition,  is  a  vice. 


50  The  'Thrilling  Moment 

The  best  thing  to  do  in  such  a  case  is  to  adopt 
some  abstract  theory  of  action  without  delay, 
and  put  it  into  practice  without  hesitation.  Then 
if  you  fail,  you  can  throw  the  responsibility  on 
the  theory. 

Now,  in  regard  to  flies  there  are  two  theories. 
The  old,  conservative  theory  is,  that  on  a  bright 
day  you  should  use  a  dark,  dull  fly,  because  it 
is  less  conspicuous.  So  I  followed  that  theory 
first  and  put  on  a  Great  Dun  and  a  Dark  Mont 
real.  I  cast  them  delicately  over  the  fish,  but 
he  would  not  look  at  them. 

Then  I  perverted  myself  to  the  new,  radical 
theory  which  says  that  on  a  bright  day  you  must 
use  a  light,  gay  fly,  because  it  is  more  in  har 
mony  with  the  sky,  and  therefore  less  noticeable. 
Accordingly  I  put  on  a  Professor  and  a  Par- 
macheene  Belle;  but  this  combination  of  learn 
ing  and  beauty  had  no  attraction  for  the 
ouananiche. 

Then  I  fell  back  on  a  theory  of  my  own,  to 
the  effect  that  the  ouananiche  have  an  aversion 
to  red,  and  prefer  yellow  and  brown.  So  I 
tried  various  combinations  of  flies  in  which  these 
colours  predominated. 


The  Thrilling  Moment  51 

Then  I  abandoned  all  theories  and  went 
straight  through  my  book,  trying  something 
from  every  page,  and  winding  up  with  that  lure 
which  the  guides  consider  infallible — "  a  Jock 
o'  Scott  that  cost  fifty  cents  at  Quebec."  But 
it  was  all  in  vain.  I  was  ready  to  despair. 

At  this  psychological  moment  I  heard  behind 
me  a  voice  of  hope, — the  song  of  a  grasshopper : 
not  one  of  those  fat-legged,  green- winged  imbe 
ciles  that  feebly  tumble  in  the  summer  fields,  but 
a  game  grasshopper, — one  of  those  thin- 
shanked,  brown-winged  fellows  that  leap  like 
kangaroos,  and  fly  like  birds,  and  sing  Kri- 
karee-karee-kri  in  their  flight. 

It  is  not  really  a  song,  I  know,  but  it  sounds 
like  one;  and,  if  you  had  heard  that  Kri-karee 
carolling  as  I  chased  him  over  the  rocks,  you 
would  have  been  sure  that  he  was  mocking  me. 

I  believed  that  he  was  the  predestined  lure  for 
that  ouananiche;  but  it  was  hard  to  persuade 
him  to  fulfil  his  destiny.  I  slapped  at  him  with 
my  hat,  but  he  was  not  there.  I  grasped  at  him 
on  the  bushes,  and  brought  away  "  nothing  but 
leaves."  At  last  he  made  his  way  to  the  very 
edge  of  the  water  and  poised  himself  on  a  stone, 


52  'The  Thrilling  Moment 

with  his  legs  well  tucked  in  for  a  long  leap  and 
a  bold  flight  to  the  other  side  of  the  river.  It 
was  my  final  opportunity.  I  made  a  desperate 
grab  at  it  and  caught  the  grasshopper. 

My  premonition  proved  to  be  correct.  When 
that  Kri-karee,  invisibly  attached  to  my  line, 
went  floating  down  the  stream,  the  ouananiche 
was  surprised.  It  was  the  fourteenth  of  Sep 
tember,  and  he  had  supposed  the  grasshopper 
season  was  over.  The  unexpected  temptation 
was  too  strong  for  him.  He  rose  with  a  rush, 
and  in  an  instant  I  was  fast  to  the  best  land 
locked  salmon  of  the  year. 

But  the  situation  was  not  without  its  embar 
rassments.  My  rod  weighed  only  four  and  a 
quarter  ounces;  the  fish  weighed  between  six 
and  seven  pounds.  The  water  was  furious  and 
headstrong.  I  had  only  thirty  yards  of  line  and 
no  landing-net. 

" Hold!  Ferdinand!"  I  cried.  " Apporte 
la  nette,  vite!  'A  beauty!  Hiirry  up!" 

I  thought  it  must  be  an  hour  while  he  was 
making  his  way  over  the  hill,  through  the  un 
derbrush,  around  the  cliff.  Again  and  again 
the  fish  ran  out  my  line  almost  to  the  last  turn. 


The  Thrilling  Moment  53 

A  dozen  times  he  leaped  from  the  water,  shak- 
;ng  his  silvery  sides.  Twice  he  tried  to  cut  the 
leader  across  a  sunken  ledge.  But  at  last  he 
was  played  out,  and  came  in  quietly  towards  the 
point  of  the  rock.  At  the  same  moment  Ferdi 
nand  appeared  with  the  net. 

Now,  the  use  of  the  net  is  really  the  most 
difficult  part  of  angling.  And  Ferdinand  is  the 
best  netsman  in  the  Lake  St.  John  country.  He 
never  makes  the  mistake  of  trying  to  scoop  a 
fish  in  motion.  He  does  not  grope  around 
with  aimless,  futile  strokes  as  if  he  were  feeling 
for  something  in  the  dark.  He  does  not  en 
tangle  the  dropper-fly  in  the  net  and  tear  the  tail- 
fly  out  of  the  fish's  mouth.  He  does  not  get 
excited. 

He  quietly  sinks  the  net  in  the  water,  and 
waits  until  he  can  see  the  fish  distinctly,  lying 
perfectly  still  and  within  reach.  Then  he  makes 
a  swift  movement,  like  that  of  a  mower  swing 
ing  the  scythe,  takes  the  fish  into  the  net  head 
first,  and  lands  him  without  a  slip. 

I  felt  sure  that  Ferdinand  was  going  to  do 
the  trick  in  precisely  this  way  with  my  ouana- 
niche.  Just  at  the  right  instant  he  made  one 
quick,  steady  swing  of  the  arms,  and — the  head 


54  The  Thrilling  Moment 

of  the  net  broke  clean  off  the  handle  and  went 
floating  away  with  the  fish  in  it ! 

All  seemed  to  be  lost.  But  Ferdinand  was 
equal  to  the  occasion.  He  seized  a  long,  crooked 
stick  that  lay  in  a  pile  of  driftwood  on  the  shore, 
sprang  into  the  water  up  to  his  waist,  caught 
the  net  as  it  drifted  past,  and  dragged  it  to  land, 
with  the  ultimate  ouananiche,  the  prize  of  the 
season,  still  glittering  through  its  meshes. 

This  is  the  story  of  my  most  thrilling  moment 
as  an  angler. 

But  which  was  the  moment  of  the  deepest 
thrill? 

Was  it  when  the  huckleberry  bush  saved  me 
from  a  watery  grave,  or  when  the  log  rolled 
under  my  feet  and  started  down  the  river  ?  Was 
it  when  the  fish  rose,  or  when  the  net  broke,  or 
when  the  long  stick  captured  it  ? 

No,  it  was  none  of  these.  It  was  when  the 
Kri-karee  sat  with  his  legs  tucked  under  him  on 
the  brink  of  the  stream.  That  was  the  turning- 
point.  The  fortunes  of  the  day  depended  on 
the  comparative  quickness  of  the  reflex  action  of 
his  neural  ganglia  and  mine.  That  was  the 
thrilling  moment. 

I  see  it  now.     A  crisis  is  really  the  common- 


The  Thrilling  Moment  55 

est  thing  in  the  world.  The  reason  why  life 
sometimes  seems  dull  to  us  is  because  we  do  not 
perceive  the  importance  and  the  excitement  of 
getting  bait. 


Talkability 

I.       PRELUDE ON    AN    OLD,    FOOLISH    MAXIM 

"He  praises  a  meditative  life,  and  with  evident  sin 
cerity  :  but  we  feel  that  he  liked  nothing  so  well  as  good 
talk." — JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL:  Walton. 

HP*  HE  inventor  of  the  familiar  maxim  that 
"  fishermen  must  not  talk  "  is  lost  in  the 
mists  of  antiquity,  and  well  deserves  his  fate. 
For  a  more  foolish  rule,  a  conventionality  more 
obscure  and  aimless  in  its  tyranny,  was  never 
imposed  upon  an  innocent  and  honourable  occu 
pation,  to  diminish  its  pleasure  and  discount  its 
profits.  Why,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  genial, 
should  anglers  go  about  their  harmless  sport  in 
stealthy  silence  like  conspirators,  or  sit  together 
in  a  boat,  dumb,  glum,  and  penitential,  like 
naughty  schoolboys  on  the  bench  of  disgrace? 
'Tis  an  Omorcan  superstition;  a  rule  without  a 
reason ;  a  venerable,  idiotic  fashion  invented  to 
56 


Taxability  57 

repress  lively  spirits  and  put  a  premium  on 
stupidity. 

For  my  part,  I  incline  rather  to  the  opinion 
of  the  Neapolitan  fishermen  who  maintain  that 
a  certain  amount  of  noise,  of  certain  kinds,  is 
likely  to  improve  the  fishing,  and  who  have  a 
particular  song,  very  sweet  and  charming,  which 
they  sing  to  draw  the  fishes  around  them.  It 
is  narrated,  likewise,  of  the  good  St.  Brandan, 
that  on  his  notable  voyage  from  Ireland  in  search 
of  Paradise,  he  chanted  the  service  for  St. 
Peter's  Day  so  pleasantly  that  a  subaqueous 
audience  of  all  sorts  and  sizes  was  attracted, 
insomuch  that  the  other  monks  began  to  be 
afraid,  and  begged  the  abbot  that  he  would  sing 
a  little  lower,  for  they  were  not  quite  sure  of 
the  intention  of  the  congregation.  Of  St. 
Anthony  of  Padua  it  is  said  that  he  even  suc 
ceeded  in  persuading  the  fishes,  in  great  multi 
tudes,  to  listen  to  a  sermon;  and  that  when  it 
was  ended  (it  must  be  noted  that  it  was  both 
short  and  cheerful)  they  bowed  their  heads  and 
moved  their  bodies  up  and  down  with  every 
mark  of  fondness  and  approval  of  what  the 
holy  father  had  spoken. 

If  we  can  believe  this,  surely  we  need  not  be 


58  Taxability 


incredulous  of  things  which  seem  to  be  no  less, 
but  rather  more,  in  harmony  with  the  course 
of  nature.  Creatures  who  are  sensible  to  the 
atcractions  of  a  sermon  can  hardly  be  indifferent 
to  the  charm  of  other  kinds  of  discourse.  I  can 
easily  imagine  a  company  of  grayling  wishing 
to  overhear  a  conversation  between  I.  W.  and 
his  affectionate  (but  somewhat  prodigal)  son 
and  servant,  Charles  Cotton;  and  surely  every 
intelligent  salmon  in  Scotland  might  have  been 
glad  to  hear  Christopher  North  and  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd  bandy  jests  and  swap  stories.  As  for 
trout, — was  there  one  in  Massachusetts  that 
would  not  have  been  curious  to  listen  to  the 
intimate  opinions  of  Daniel  Webster  as  he 
loafed  along  the  banks  of  the  Marshpee, — 
or  is  there  one  in  Pennsylvania  to-day  that  might 
not  be  drawn  with  interest  and  delight  to  the 
feet  of  Joseph  Jefferson,  telling  how  he  con 
ceived  and  wrote  Rip  Van  Winkle  on  the  banks 
of  a  trout  stream  ? 

Fishermen  must  be  silent  ?  On  the  contrary, 
it  is  far  more  likely  that  good  talk  may  promote 
good  fishing. 

All  this,  however,  goes  upon  the  assumption 
that  fish  can  hear,  in  the  proper  sense  of  the 


Talkability  59 

word.  And  this,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  an 
assumption  not  yet  fully  verified.  Experi 
enced  anglers  and  students  of  fishy  ways  are 
divided  upon  the  question.  It  is  beyond  a  doubt 
that  all  fishes,  except  the  very  lowest  forms, 
have  ears.  But  then  so  have  all  men;  and  yet 
we  have  the  best  authority  for  believing  that 
there  are  many  who  "  having  ears,  hear  not." 

The  ears  of  fishes,  for  the  most  part,  are  en 
closed  in  their  skull,  and  have  no  outward  open 
ing.  Water  conveys  sound,  as  every  country 
boy  knows  who  has  tried  the  experiment  of 
diving  to  the  bottom  of  the  swimming-hole  and 
knocking  two  big  stones  together.  But  I  doubt 
whether  any  country  boy,  engaged  in  this  inter 
esting  scientific  experiment,  has  heard  the  con 
versation  of  his  friends  on  the  bank  who  were 
engaged  in  hiding  his  clothes. 

There  are  many  curious  and  more  or  less 
venerable  stories  to  the  effect  that  fishes  may  be 
trained  to  assemble  at  the  ringing  of  a  bell  or 
the  beating  of  a  drum.  Lucian,  a  writer  of  the 
second  century,  tells  of  a  certain  lake  wherein 
many  sacred  fishes  were  kept,  of  which  the 
largest  had  names  given  to  them,  and  came  when 
they  were  called.  But  Lucian  was  not  a  man  of 


60  lalkability 

especially  good  reputation,  and  there  is  an  air 
of  improbability  about  his  statement  that  the 
largest  fishes  came.  This  is  not  the  custom  of 
the  largest  fishes. 

In  the  present  century  there  was  a  tale  of  an 
eel  in  a  garden-well,  in  Scotland,  which  would 
come  to  be  fed  out  of  a  spoon  when  the  children 
called  him  by  his  singularly  inappropriate  name 
of  Rob  Roy.  This  seems  a  more  likely  story 
than  Lucian's;  at  all  events  it  comes  from  a 
more  orthodox  atmosphere.  But  before  giving 
it  full  credence,  I  should  like  to  know  whether 
the  children,  when  they  called  "  Rob  Roy !  " 
stood  where  the  eel  could  see  the  spoon. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  question,  we  may 
quote  Mr.  Ronalds,  also  a  Scotchman,  and  the 
learned  author  of  The  Fly -Fisher's  Entomology, 
who  conducted  a  series  of  experiments  which 
proved  that  even  trout,  the  most  fugacious  of 
fish,  are  not  in  the  least  disturbed  by  the  dis 
charge  of  a  gun,  provided  the  flash  is  concealed. 
Mr.  Henry  P.  Wells,  the  author  of  The  Ameri 
can  Salmon  Angler,  says  that  he  has  "  never 
been  able  to  make  a  sound  in  the  air  which 
seemed  to  produce  the  slightest  effect  upon  trout 
in  the  water." 


Talkability  61 

So  the  controversy  on  the  hearing  of  fishes 
continues,  and  the  conclusion  remains  open. 
Every  man  is  at  liberty  to  embrace  that  side 
which  pleases  him  best.  You  may  think  that 
the  finny  tribes  are  as  sensitive  to  sound  as  Fine 
Ear,  in  the  German  fairy-tale,  who  could  hear 
the  grass  grow.  Or  you  may  hold  the  opposite 
opinion,  that  they  are 

""  Deafer  than  the  blue-eyed  cat." 

But  whichever  theory  you  adopt,  in  practice,  if 
you  are  a  wise  fisherman,  you  will  steer  a  middle 
course,  between  one  thing  which  must  be  left 
undone  and  another  thing  which  should  be  done. 
You  will  refrain  from  stamping  on  the  bank,  or 
knocking  on  the  side  of  the  boat,  or  dragging 
the  anchor  among  the  stones  on  the  bottom ;  for 
when  the  water  vibrates  the  fish  are  likely  to 
vanish.  But  you  will  indulge  as  freely  as  you 
please  in  pleasant  discourse  with  your  comrade ; 
for  it  is  certain  that  fishing  is  never  hindered, 
and  may  even  be  helped,  in  one  way  or  another, 
by  good  talk. 

I  should  therefore  have  no  hesitation  in  ad 
vising  anyone  to  choose,  for  companionship  on 


62  Talkability 

an  angling  expedition,  long  or  short,  a  person 
who  has  the  rare  merit  of  being  talkable. 


II.       THEME ON  A  SMALL,   USEFUL  VIRTUE 

"  Talkable  "  is  not  a  new  adjective.  But  it 
needs  a  new  definition,  and  the  complement  of 
a  corresponding  noun.  I  would  fain  set  down 
on  paper  some  observations  and  reflections 
which  may  serve  to  make  its  meaning  clear,  and 
render  due  praise  to  that  most  excellent  quality 
in  man  or  woman, — especially  in  anglers, — the 
small  but  useful  virtue  of  talkability. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  uses  the  word  "  talk- 
able  "  in  one  of  his  essays  to  denote  a  certain 
distinction  among  the  possible  subjects  of 
human  speech.  There  are  some  things,  he  says 
in  effect,  about  which  you  can  really  talk;  and 
there  are  other  things  about  which  you  cannot 
properly  talk  at  all,  but  only  dispute,  or 
harangue,  or  prose,  or  moralise,  or  chatter. 

After  mature  consideration  I  have  arrived  at 
the  Opinion  that  this  distinction  among  the 
themes  of  speech  is  an  illusion.  It  does  not 
exist.  All  subjects,  "  the  foolish  things  of  the 
world,  and  the  weak  things  of  the  world,  and 


Taxability  63 

base  things  of  the  world,  yea,  and  things  that 
are  not,"  may  provide  matter  for  good  talk,  if 
only  the  right  people  are  engaged  in  the  enter 
prise.  I  know  a  man  who  can  make  a  descrip 
tion  of  the  weather  as  entertaining  as  a  tune  on 
the  violin ;  and  even  on  the  threadbare  theme  of 
the  waywardness  of  domestic  servants,  I  have 
heard  a  discreet  woman  play  the  most  diverting 
and  instructive  variations. 

No,  the  quality  of  talkability  does  not  mark  a 
distinction  among  things ;  it  denotes  a  difference 
among  people.  It  is  not  an  attribute  unequally 
distributed  among  material  objects  and  abstract 
ideas.  It  is  a  virtue  which  belongs  to  the  mind 
and  moral  character  of  certain  persons.  It  is  a 
reciprocal  human  quality;  active  as  well  as  pas 
sive;  a  power  of  bestowing  and  receiving. 

An  amiable  person  is  one  who  has  a  capacity 
for  loving  and  being  loved.  An  affable  person 
is  one  who  is  ready  to  speak  and  to  be  spoken 
to, — as,  for  example,  Milton's  "  affable  arch 
angel  "  Raphael;  though  it  must  be  confessed 
that  he  laid  the  chief  emphasis  on  the  active  side 
of  his  affability.  A  "  clubable  "  person  (to  use 
a  word  which  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  invented  but 
did  not  put  into  his  dictionary)  is  one  who  is  fit 


64  Talkability 

for  the  familiar  give  and  take  of  club-life.  A 
talkable  person,  therefore,  is  one  whose  nature 
and  disposition  invite  the  easy  interchange  of 
thoughts  and  feelings,  one  in  whose  company  it 
is  a  pleasure  to  talk  or  to  be  talked  to. 

Now  this  good  quality  of  talkability  is  to  be 
distinguished,  very  strictly  and  inflexibly,  from 
the  bad  quality  which  imitates  it  and  often  brings 
it  into  discredit.  I  mean  the  vice  of  talkative 
ness.  That  is  a  selfish,  one-sided,  inharmoni 
ous  affair,  full  of  discomfort,  and  productive  of 
most  unchristian  feelings. 

You  may  observe  the  operations  of  this  vice 
not  only  in  human  beings,  but  also  in  birds.  All 
the  birds  in  the  bush  can  make  some  kind  of  a 
noise ;  and  most  of  them  like  to  do  it ;  and  some 
of  them  like  it  a  great  deal  and  do  it  very  much. 
But  it  is  not  always  for  edification,  nor  are  the 
most  vociferous  and  garrulous  birds  commonly 
the  most  pleasing.  A  parrot,  for  instance,  in 
your  neighbour's  back  yard,  in  the  summer  time, 
when  the  windows  are  open,  is  not  an  aid  to  the 
development  of  Christian  character.  I  knew  a 
man  who  had  to  stay  in  the  city  all  summer,  and 
in  the  autumn  was  asked  to  describe  the  charac 
ter  and  social  standing  of  a  new  family  that  had 


Talkability  65 

moved  into  his  neighbourhood.  Were  they 
"  nice  people,"  well-bred,  intelligent,  respect 
able?  "Well,"  said  he,  "I  don't  know  what 
your  standards  are,  and  would  prefer  not  to  say 
anything  libellous ;  but  I'll  tell  you  in  a  word, — 
they  are  the  kind  of  people  that  keep  a  parrot." 

Then  there  is  the  English  Sparrow !  What 
an  insufferable  chatterbox,  what  an  incurable 
scold,  what  a  voluble  and  tiresome  blackguard 
is  this  little  feathered  cockney.  There  is  not 
a  sweet  or  pleasant  word  in  all  his  vocabulary. 

I  am  convinced  that  he  talks  altogether  of 
scandals  and  fights  and  street-sweepings. 

The  kingdom  of  ornithology  is  divided  into 
two  departments, — real  birds  and  English  spar 
rows.  English  sparrows  are  not  real  birds; 
they  are  little  beasts. 

There  was  a  church  in  Brooklyn  which  was 
once  covered  with  a  great  and  spreading  vine, 
in  which  the  sparrows  built  innumerable  nests. 
These  ungodly  little  birds  kept  up  such  a  din 
that  it  was  impossible  to  hear  the  service  of  the 
sanctuary.  The  faithful  clergy  strained  their 
voices  to  the  verge  of  ministerial  sore  throat, 
but  the  people  had  no  peace  in  their  devotions 
3 


66  Talkability 

until  the  vine  was  cut  down,  and  the  Anglican 
intruders  were  evicted. 

A  talkative  person  is  like  an  English  sparrow, 
— a  bird  that  cannot  sing,  and  will  sing,  and 
ought  to  be  persuaded  not  to  try  to  sing.  But 
a  talkable  person  has  the  gift  that  belongs  to  the 
wood  thrush  and  the  veery  and  the  wren,  the 
oriole  and  the  white-throat  and  the  rose-breasted 
grosbeak,  the  mockingbird  and  the  robin  (some 
times)  ;  and  the  brown  thrush ;  yes,  the  brown 
thrush  has  it  to  perfection,  if  you  can  catch  him 
alone, — the  gift  of  being  interesting,  charming, 
delightful,  in  the  most  off-hand  and  various 
modes  of  utterance. 

Talkability  is  not  at  all  the  same  thing  as 
eloquence.  The  eloquent  man  surprises,  over 
whelms,  and  sometimes  paralyses  us  by  the  dis 
play  of  his  power.  Great  orators  are  seldom 
good  talkers.  Oratory  in  exercise  is  masterful 
and  jealous,  and  intolerant  of  all  interruptions. 
Oratory  in  preparation  is  silent,  self-centred, 
uncommunicative.  The  painful  truth  of  this 
remark  may  be  seen  in  the  row  of  countenances 
along  the  president's  table  at  a  public  banquet 
about  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening.  The  bicycle- 
face  seems  unconstrained  and  merry  by  compari- 


Talkability  67 

son  with  the  after-dinner-speech-face.  The  flow 
of  table-talk  is  corked  by  the  anxious  concep 
tion  of  post-prandial  oratory. 

Thackeray,  in  one  of  his  Roundabout  Papers, 
speaks  of  "  the  sin  of  tall-talking,"  which,  he 
says,  "  is  the  sin  of  schoolmasters,  governesses, 
critics,  sermoners,  and  instructors  of  young  or 
old  people."  But  this  is  not  in  accord  with  my 
observation.  I  should  say  it  was  rather  the  sin 
of  dilettanti  who  are  ambitious  of  that  high- 
stepping  accomplishment  which  is  called  "  con 
versational  ability." 

This  has  usually,  to  my  mind,  something  set 
and  artificial  about  it,  although  in  its  most  per 
fect  form  the  art  almost  succeeds  in  concealing 
itself.  But,  at  all  events,  "  conversation "  is 
talk  in  evening  dress,  with  perhaps  a  little  pow 
der  and  a  touch  of  rouge.  'Tis  like  one  of 
those  wise  virgins  who  are  said  to  look  their 
best  by  lamplight.  And  doubtless  this  is  an 
excellent  thing,  and  not  without  its  advantages. 
But  for  my  part,  commend  me  to  one  who  loses 
nothing  by  the  early  morning  illumination, — 
one  who  brings  all  her  attractions  with  her  when 
she  comes  down  to  breakfast, — she  is  a  very 
pleasant  maid. 


68  Taxability 

Talk  is  that  form  of  human  speech  which  is 
exempt  from  all  duties,  foreign  and  domestic. 
It  is  the  nearest  thing  in  the  world  to  thinking 
and  feeling  aloud.  It  is  necessarily  not  for  pub 
lication, — solely  an  evidence  of  good  faith  and 
mutual  kindness.  You  tell  me  what  you  have 
seen  and  what  you  are  thinking  about,  because 
you  take  it  for  granted  that  it  will  interest  and 
entertain  me;  and  you  listen  to  my  replies  and 
the  recital  of  my  adventures  and  opinions,  be 
cause  you  know  I  like  to  tell  them,  and  because 
you  find  something  in  them,  of  one  kind  or 
another,  that  you  care  to  hear.  It  is  a  nice 
game,  with  easy,  simple  rules,  and  endless  pos 
sibilities  of  variation.  And  if  we  go  into  it 
with  the  right  spirit,  and  play  it  for  love,  with 
out  heavy  stakes,  the  chances  are  that  if  we 
happen  to  be  fairly  talkable  people,  we  shall  have 
one  of  the  best  things  in  the  world, — a  mighty 
good  talk. 

What  is  there  in  this  anxious,  hide-bound, 
tiresome  existence  of  ours,  more  restful  and 
remunerative  ?  Montaigne  says,  "  The  use  of 
it  is  more  sweet  than  of  any  other  action  of  life; 
and  for  that  reason  it  is  that,  if  I  were  com 
pelled  to  choose,  I  should  sooner,  I  think,  con- 


Taxability  69 

sent  to  lose  my  sight  than  my  hearing  and 
speech."  The  very  aimlessness  with  which  it 
proceeds,  the  serene  disregard  of  all  considera 
tions  of  profit  and  propriety  with  which  it  fol 
lows  its  wandering  course,  and  brings  up  any 
where  or  nowhere,  to  camp  for  the  night,  is  one 
of  its  attractions.  It  is  like  a  day's  fishing,  not 
valuable  chiefly  for  the  fish  you  bring  home,  but 
for  the  pleasant  country  through  which  it  leads 
you,  and  the  state  of  personal  well-being  and 
health  in  which  it  leaves  you,  warmed,  and 
cheered,  and  content  with  life  and  friendship. 
The  order  in  which  you  set  out  upon  a  talk, 
the  path  which  you  pursue,  the  rules  which  you 
observe  or  disregard,  make  but  little  difference 
in  the  end.  You  may  follow  the  advice  of  Im- 
manuel  Kant  if  you  like,  and  begin  with  the 
weather  and  the  roads,  and  go  on  to  current 
events,  and  wind  up  with  history,  art,  and  philo 
sophy.  Or  you  may  reverse  the  order  if  you 
prefer,  like  that  admirable  talker  Clarence  King, 
who  usually  set  sail  on  some  highly  abstract 
paradox,  such  as  "  Civilisation  is  a  nervous 
disease,"  and  landed  in  a  tale  of  adventure  in 
Mexico  or  the  Rocky  Mountains.  Or  you  may 
follow  the  example  of  Edward  Eggleston,  who 


yo  Talkability 

started  in  at  the  middle  and  worked  out  at  either 
end,  and  sometimes  at  both.  It  makes  no 
difference.  If  the  thing  is  in  you  at  all,  you 
will  find  good  matter  for  talk  anywhere  along 
the  route.  Hear  what  Montaigne  says  again: 
"  In  our  discourse  all  subjects  are  alike  to  me ; 
let  there  be  neither  weight  nor  depth,  'tis  all 
one ;  there  is  yet  grace  and  pertinence ;  all  there 
is  tented  with  a  mature  and  constant  judgment, 
and  mixed  with  goodness,  freedom,  gaiety,  and 
friendship." 

How  close  to  the  mark  the  old  essayist  sends 
his  arrow!  He  is  right  about  the  essential 
qualities  of  good  talk.  They  are  not  merely  in 
tellectual.  They  are  moral.  Goodness  of 
heart,  freedom  of  spirit,  gaiety  of  temper,  and 
friendliness  of  disposition — these  are  four  fine 
things,  and  doubtless  as  acceptable  to  God  as 
they  are  agreeable  to  men.  The  talkability  which 
springs  out  of  these  qualities  has  its  roots  in  a 
good  soil.  On  such  a  plant  one  need  not  look 
for  the  poison  berries  of  malign  discourse,  nor 
for  the  Dead  Sea  apples  of  frivolous  mockery. 
But  fair  fruit  will  be  there,  pleasant  to  the  sight 
and  good  for  food,  brought  forth  abundantly 
according  to  the  season. 


Talk  ability  71 


III.      VARIATIONS — ON    A    PLEASANT    PHRASE 
FROM    MONTAIGNE 

Montaigne  has  given  as  our  text,  "  Goodness, 
freedom,  gaiety,  and  friendship," — these  are  the 
conditions  which  produce  talkability.  And  on 
this  fourfold  theme  we  may  embroider  a  few 
variations,  by  way  of  exposition  and  enlarge 
ment. 

Goodness  is  the  first  thing  and  the  most  need 
ful.  An  ugly,  envious,  irritable  disposition  is 
not  fitted  for  talk.  The  occasions  for  offence 
are  too  numerous,  and  the  way  into  strife  is  too 
short  and  easy.  A  touch  of  good-natured  com- 
bativeness,  a  fondness  for  brisk  argument,  a 
readiness  to  try  a  friendly  bout  with  any  comer, 
on  any  ground,  is  a  decided  advantage  in  a 
talker.  It  breaks  up  the  offensive  monotony  of 
polite  concurrence,  and  makes  things  lively.  But 
quarrelsomeness  is  quite  another  affair,  and  very 
fatal. 

I  am  always  a  little  uneasy  in  a  discourse  with 
the  Reverend  Bellicosus  Macduff.  It  is  like 
playing  golf  on  links  liable  to  earthquakes.  One 
never  knows  when  the  landscape  will  be  thrown 


72  Talkability 

into  convulsions.  Macduff  has  a  tendency  to 
regard  a  difference  of  opinion  as  a  personal  in 
sult.  If  he  makes  a  bad  stroke  he  seems  to 
think  that  the  way  to  retrieve  it  is  to  deliver  the 
next  one  on  the  head  of  the  other  player.  He 
does  not  tarry  for  the  invitation  to  lay  on ;  and 
before  you  know  what  has  happened  you  find 
yourself  in  a  position  where  you  are  obliged  to 
cry,  "  Hold,  enough ! "  and  to  be  liberally 
damned  without  any  bargain  to  that  effect.  This 
is  discouraging,  and  calculated  to  make  one  wish 
that  human  intercourse  might  be  put,  as  far  as 
Macduff  is  concerned,  upon  the  gold  basis  of 
silence. 

On  the  other  hand,  what  a  delight  it  was  to 
talk  with  that  old  worthy,  Chancellor  Howard 
Crosby.  He  was  a  fighting  man  for  four  or 
five  generations  back,  Dutch  on  one  side,  Eng 
lish  on  the  other.  But  there  was  not  one  little 
drop  of  gall  in  his  blood.  His  opinions  were 
fixed  to  a  degree;  he  loved  to  do  battle  for 
them;  he  never  changed  them — at  least  never 
in  the  course  of  the  same  discussion.  He  ad 
mired  and  respected  a  gallant  adversary,  and 
urged  him  on,  with  quips  and  puns  and 
daring  assaults  and  unqualified  statements,  to 


Taxability  73 

do  his  best.  Easy  victories  were  not  to  his 
taste.  Even  if  he  joined  with  you  in  laying 
out  some  common  falsehood  for  burial,  you 
might  be  sure  that  before  the  affair  was  con 
cluded  there  would  be  every  prospect  of  what 
an  Irishman  would  call  "  an  elegant  wake."  If 
you  stood  up  against  him  on  one  of  his  favour 
ite  subjects  of  discussion  you  must  be  prepared 
for  hot  work.  You  would  have  to  take  off  your 
coat.  But  when  the  combat  was  over  he  would 
be  the  man  to  help  you  on  with  it  again;  and 
you  would  walk  home  together  arm  in  arm, 
through  the  twilight,  smoking  the  pipe  of  peace. 
Talk  like  that  does  good.  It  quickens  the  beat 
ing  of  the  heart,  and  leaves  no  scars  upon  it. 
But  this  manly  spirit,  which  loves 

"  To  drink  delight  of  battle  with  its  peers," 

is  a  very  different  thing  from  that  mean,  bad, 
hostile  temper  which  loves  to  inflict  wounds  and 
injuries  just  for  the  sake  of  showing  power,  and 
which  is  never  so  happy  as  when  it  is  making 
someone  wince.  There  are  such  people  in  the 
world,  and  sometimes  their  brilliancy  tempts 
us  to  forget  their  malignancy.  But  to  have 
3* 


74  Talkabtlity 

much  converse  with  them  is  as  if  we  should 
make  playmates  of  rattlesnakes  for  their  grace 
of  movement  and  swiftness  of  stroke. 

I  knew  a  man  once  ( I  will  not  name  him  even 
with  an  initial)  who  was  malignant  to  the  core. 
Learned,  industrious,  accomplished,  he  kept  all 
his  talents  at  the  service  of  a  perfect  genius  for 
hatred.  If  you  crossed  his  path  but  once,  he 
would  never  cease  to  curse  you.  The  grave 
might  close  over  you,  but  he  would  revile  your 
epitaph  and  mock  at  your  memory.  It  was  not 
even  necessary  that  you  should  do  anything  to 
incur  his  enmity.  It  was  enough  to  be  upright 
and  sincere  and  successful,  to  waken  the  wrath 
of  this  Shimei.  Integrity  was  an  offence  to 
him,  and  excellence  of  any  kind  filled  him  with 
spleen.  There  was  no  good  cause  within  his 
horizon  that  he  did  not  give  a  bad  word  to,  and 
no  decent  man  in  the  community  whom  he  did 
not  try  either  to  use  or  to  abuse.  To  listen  to 
him  or  to  read  what  he  had  written  was  to  learn 
to  think  a  little  worse  of  everyone  that  he  men 
tioned,  and  worst  of  all  of  him.  He  had  the  air 
of  a  gentleman,  the  vocabulary  of  a  scholar,  the 
style  of  a  Junius,  and  the  heart  of  a  Thersites. 

Talk,  in  such  company,  is  impossible.     The 


Taxability  75 

sense  of  something  evil,  lurking  beneath  the  play 
of  wit,  is  like  the  knowledge  that  there  are 
snakes  in  the  grass.  Every  step  must  be  taken 
with  fear.  But  the  real  pleasure  of  a  walk 
through  the  meadow  comes  from  the  feeling 
of  security,  of  ease,  of  safe  and  happy  abandon 
to  the  mood  of  the  moment.  This  ungirdled 
and  unguarded  felicity  in  mutual  discourse  de 
pends,  after  all,  upon  the  assurance  of  real  good 
ness  in  your  companion.  I  do  not  mean  a  stiff 
impeccability  of  conduct.  Prudes  and  Phari 
sees  are  poor  comrades.  I  mean  simply  good 
ness  of  heart,  the  wholesome,  generous,  kindly 
quality  which  thinketh  no  evil,  rejoiceth  not  in 
iniquity,  hopeth  all  things,  endureth  all  things, 
and  wisheth  well  to  all  men.  Where  you  feel 
this  quality  you  can  let  yourself  go,  in  the  ease 
of  hearty  talk. 

Freedom  is  the  second  note  that  Montaigne 
strikes,  and  it  is  essential  to  the  harmony  of 
talking.  Very  careful,  prudent,  precise  persons 
are  seldom  entertaining  in  familiar  speech.  They 
are  like  tennis  players  in  too  fine  clothes.  They 
think  more  of  their  costume  than  of  the  game. 

A  mania  for  absolutely  correct  pronunciation 
is  fatal.  The  people  who  are  afflicted  with  this 


76  Talkability 

painful  ailment  are  as  anxious  about  their  utter 
ance  as  dyspeptics  about  their  diet.  They  move 
through  their  sentences  as  delicately  as  Agag 
walked.  Their  little  airs  of  nicety,  their 
starched  cadences  and  frilled  phrases  seem  as  if 
they  had  just  been  taken  out  of  a  literary  band 
box.  If  perchance  you  happen  to  misplace  an 
accent,  you  shall  see  their  eyebrows  curl  up  like 
an  interrogation  mark,  and  they  will  ask  you 
what  authority  you  have  for  that  pronunciation. 
As  if,  forsooth,  a  man  could  not  talk  without 
book-licence!  As  if  he  must  have  a  permit 
from  some  dusty  lexicon  before  he  can  take  a 
good  word  into  his  mouth  and  speak  it  out  like 
the  people  with  whom  he  has  lived ! 

The  truth  is  that  the  man  who  is  very  particu 
lar  not  to  commit  himself,  in  pronunciation  or 
otherwise,  and  talks  as  if  his  remarks  were  be 
ing  taken  down  in  shorthand,  and  shudders  at 
the  thought  of  making  a  mistake,  will  hardly  be 
able  to  open  your  heart  or  let  out  the  best  that  is 
in  his  own. 

Reserve  and  precision  are  a  great  protection 
to  overrated  reputations;  but  they  are  death  to 
talk. 

In  talk  it  is  not  correctness  of  grammar  nor 


Taxability  77 

elegance  of  enunciation  that  charms  us;  it  is 
spirit,  verve,  the  sudden  turn  of  humour,  the 
keen,  pungent  taste  of  life.  For  this  reason  a 
touch  of  dialect,  a  flavour  of  brogue,  is  delight 
ful.  Any  dialect  is  classic  that  has  conveyed 
beautiful  thoughts.  Who  that  ever  talked  with 
the  poet  Tennyson,  when  he  let  himself  go,  over 
the  pipes,  would  miss  the  savour  of  his  broad- 
rolling  Lincolnshire  vowels,  now  heightening 
the  humour,  now  deepening  the  pathos,  of  his 
genuine  manly  speech?  There  are  many  good 
stories  lingering  in  the  memories  of  those  who 
knew  Dr.  James  McCosh,  the  late  president  of 
Princeton  University, — stories  too  good,  I 
fear,  to  get  into  a  biography;  but  the  best  of 
them,  in  print,  would  not  have  the  snap  and 
vigour  of  the  poorest  of  them,  in  talk,  with  his 
own  inimitable  Scotch-Irish  brogue  to  set  it 
forth. 

A  brogue  is  not  a  fault.  It  is  a  beauty,  an 
heirloom,  a  distinction.  A  local  accent  is  like 
a  landed  inheritance;  it  marks  a  man's  place  in 
the  world,  tells  where  he  comes  from.  Of 
course  it  is  possible  to  have  too  much  of  it.  A 
man  does  not  need  to  carry  the  soil  of  his  whole 
farm  around  with  him  on  his  boots.  But, 


78  Talkability 

within  limits,  the  accent  of  a  native  region  is 
delightful.  'Tis  the  flavour  of  heather  in  the 
grouse,  the  taste  of  wild  herbs  and  evergreen- 
buds  in  the  venison.  I  like  the  maple-sugar 
tang  of  the  Vermonters'  sharp-edged  speech; 
the  round,  full-waisted  r's  of  Pennsylvania  and 
Ohio;  the  soft,  indolent  vowels  of  the  South. 
One  of  the  best  talkers  now  living  is  a  school 
master  from  Virginia,  Colonel  Gordon  McCabe. 
I  once  crossed  the  ocean  with  him  on  a  stream 
of  stories  that  reached  from  Liverpool  to  New 
York.  He  did  not  talk  in  the  least  like  a  book. 
He  talked  like  a  Virginian. 

When  Montaigne  mentions  gaiety  as  the 
third  element  of  satisfying  discourse,  I  fancy 
he  does  not  mean  mere  fun,  though  that  has  its 
value  at  the  right  time  and  place.  But  there  is 
another  quality  which  is  far  more  valuable  and 
always  fit.  Indeed  it  underlies  the  best  fun 
and  makes  it  wholesome.  It  is  cheerfulness, 
the  temper  which  makes  the  best  of  things  and 
squeezes  the  little  drops  of  honey  even  out  of 
thistle-blossoms.  I  think  this  is  what  Mon 
taigne  meant.  Certainly  it  is  what  he  had. 

Cheerfulness  is  the  background  of  all  good 
talk.  A  sense  of  humour  is  a  means  of  grace. 


Taxability  79 

With  it  I  have  heard  a  pleasant  soul  make  even 
that  most  perilous  of  all  subjects,  the  descrip 
tion  of  a  long  illness,  entertaining.  The  various 
physicians  moved  through  the  recital  as  excel 
lent  comedians,  and  the  medicines  appeared  like 
a  succession  of  timely  jests. 

There  is  no  occasion  upon  which  this  precious 
element  of  talkability  comes  out  stronger  than 
when  we  are  on  a  journey.  Travel  with  a 
cheerless  and  easily  discouraged  companion  is 
an  unadulterated  misery.  But  a  cheerful  com 
rade  is  better  than  a  waterproof  coat  and  a 
foot-warmer. 

I  remember  riding  once  with  my  lady  Grey- 
gown  fifteen  miles  through  a  cold  rainstorm, 
in  an  open  buckboard,  over  the  worst  road  in  the 
world,  from  Lac  a  la  Belle  Riviere  to  the  Meta- 
betchouan  River.  Such  was  the  cheerfulness  of 
her  ejaculations  (the  only  possible  form  of  talk) 
that  we  arrived  at  our  destination  as  warm  and 
merry  as  if  we  had  been  sitting  beside  a  roaring 
camp-fire. 

But  after  all,  the  very  best  thing  in  good  talk, 
and  the  thing  that  helps  it  most,  is  friendship. 
How  it  dissolves  the  barriers  that  divide  us,  and 


80  Talkability 

loosens  all  constraint,  and  diffuses  itself  like 
some  fine  old  cordial  through  all  the  veins  of 
life — this  feeling  that  we  understand  and  trust 
each  other,  and  wish  each  other  heartily  well! 
Everything  into  which  it  really  comes  is  good. 
It  transforms  letter-writing  from  a  task  into  a 
pleasure.  It  makes  music  a  thousand  times 
more  sweet.  The  people  who  play  and  sing  not 
at  us,  but  to  us, — how  delightful  it  is  to  listen 
to  them!  Yes,  there  is  a  talkability  that  can 
express  itself  even  without  words.  There  is  an 
exchange  of  thought  and  feeling  which  is  happy 
alike  in  speech  and  in  silence.  It  is  quietness 
pervaded  with  friendship. 

Having  come  thus  far  in  the  exposition  of 
Montaigne,  I  shall  conclude  with  an  opinion  of 
my  own,  even  though  I  cannot  quote  a  sentence 
of  his  to  back  it. 

The  one  person  of  all  the  world  in  whom  talk- 
ability  is  most  desirable,  and  talkativeness  least 
endurable,  is  a  wife, 


A  Wild  Strawberry 


"Such  is  the  story  of  the  Boblink;  once  spiritual,  musi 
cal,  admired,  the  joy  of  the  meadows,  and  the  favourite 
bird  of  spring;  finally  a  gross  little  sensualist  who  expiates 
his  sensuality  in  the  larder.  His  story  contains  a  moral, 
worthy  the  attention  of  all  little  birds  and  little  boys; 
learning  them  to  keep  to  those  refined  and  intellectual 
pursuits  which  raised  him  to  so  high  a  pitch  of  popu 
larity  during  the  early  part  of  his  career;  but  to  eschew 
all  tendency  to  that  gross  and  dissipated  indulgence,  which 
brought  this  mistaken  little  bird  to  an  untimely  end." — 
WASHINGTON  IRVING:  Wolfert's  Roost. 

r  I  "HE  Swiftwater  brook  was  laughing  softly 
to  itself  as  it  ran  through  a  strip  of  hem 
lock  forest  on  the  edge  of  the  Woodlings'  farm. 
Among  the  evergreen  branches  overhead  the 
gaily-dressed  warblers, — little  friends  of  the 
forest, — were  flitting  to  and  fro,  lisping  their 
June  songs  of  contented  love:  milder,  slower, 
lazier  notes  than  those  in  which  they  voiced  the 
amorous  raptures  of  May.  Prince's  Pine  and 
golden  loose-strife  and  pink  laurel  and  blue  hare 
bells  and  purple-fringed  orchids,  and  a  score  of 

Si 


82  A  Wild,  Strawberry 

lovely  flowers  were  all  abloom.  The  late  spring 
had  hindered  some;  the  sudden  heats  of  early 
summer  had  hastened  others;  and  now  they 
seemed  to  come  out  all  together,  as  if  Nature 
had  suddenly  tilted  up  her  cornucopia  and 
poured  forth  her  treasures  in  spendthrift  joy. 

I  lay  on  a  mossy  bank  at  the  foot  of  a  tree, 
filling  my  pipe  after  a  frugal  lunch,  and  think 
ing  how  hard  it  would  be  to  find  in  any  quar 
ter  of  the  globe  a  place  more  fair  and  fragrant 
than  this  hidden  vale  among  the  Alleghany 
Mountains.  The  perfume  of  the  flowers  of  the 
forest  is  more  sweet  and  subtle  than  the  heavy 
scent  of  tropical  blossoms.  No  lily-field  in 
Bermuda  could  give  a  fragrance  half  so  magical 
as  the  fairy-like  odour  of  these  woodland  slopes, 
soft  carpeted  with  the  green  of  glossy  vines 
above  whose  tiny  leaves,  in  delicate  profusion, 

"  The  slight  Linnaea  hangs  its  twin-born  heads." 

Nor  are  there  any  birds  in  Africa,  or  among  the 
Indian  Isles,  more  exquisite  in  colour  than  these 
miniature  warblers,  showing  their  gold  and 
green,  their  orange  and  black,  their  blue  and 
white,  against  the  dark  background  of  the  rho 
dodendron  thicket. 


A  Wild,  Strawberry  83 

But  how  seldom  we  put  a  cup  of  pleasure  to 
our  lips  without  a  dash  of  bitters,  a  touch  of 
fault-finding.  My  drop  of  discontent,  that  day, 
was  the  thought  that  the  northern  woodland,  at 
least  in  June,  yielded  no  fruit  to  match  its  beauty 
and  its  fragrance. 

There  is  good  browsing  among  the  leaves  of 
the  wood  and  the  grasses  of  the  meadow,  as 
every  well-instructed  angler  knows.  The 
bright  emerald  tips  that  break  from  the  hemlock 
and  the  balsam  like  verdant  flames  have  a  plea 
sant  savour  to  the  tongue.  The  leaves  of  the 
sassafras  are  full  of  spice,  and  the  bark  of  the 
black-birch  twigs  holds  a  fine  cordial.  Crinkle- 
root  is  spicy,  but  you  must  partake  of  it  deli 
cately,  or  it  will  bite  your  tongue.  Spearmint 
and  peppermint  never  lose  their  charm  for  the 
palate  that  still  remembers  the  delights  of  youth. 
Wild  sorrel  has  an  agreeable,  sour,  shivery 
flavour.  Even  the  tender  stalk  of  a  young 
blade  of  grass  is  a  thing  that  can  be  chewed  by 
a  person  of  childlike  mind  with  much  content 
ment. 

But,  after  all,  these  are  only  relishes.  They 
whet  the  appetite  more  than  they  appease  it. 
There  should  be  something  to  eat,  in  the  June 


84  A  Wild,  Strawberry 

woods,  as  perfect  in  its  kind,  as  satisfying  to 
the  sense  of  taste,  as  the  birds  and  the  flowers 
are  to  the  senses  of  sight  and  hearing  and  smell. 
Blueberries  are  good,  but  they  are  far  away  in 
July.  Blackberries  are  luscious  when  they  are 
fully  ripe,  but  that  will  not  be  until  August. 
Then  the  fishing  will  be  over,  and  the  angler's 
hour  of  need  will  be  past.  The  one  thing  that 
is  lacking  now  beside  this  mountain  stream  is 
some  fruit  more  luscious  and  dainty  than  grows 
in  the  tropics,  to  melt  upon  the  lips  and  fill  the 
mouth  with  pleasure. 

But  that  is  what  these  cold  northern  woods 
will  not  offer.  They  are  too  reserved,  too  lofty, 
too  puritanical  to  make  provision  for  the  grosser 
wants  of  humanity.  They  are  not  friendly  to 
luxury. 

Just  then,  as  I  shifted  my  head  to  find  a 
softer  pillow  of  moss  after  this  philosophic  and 
immoral  reflection,  Nature  gave  me  her  silent 
answer.  Three  wild  strawberries,  nodding  on 
their  long  stems,  hung  over  my  face.  It  was  an 
invitation  to  taste  and  see  that  they  were  good. 

The  berries  were  not  the  round  and  rosy  ones 
of  the  meadow,  but  the  long,  slender,  dark  crim 
son  ones  of  the  forest.  One,  two,  three;  no 


A  Wild.  Strawberry  85 

more  on  that  vine ;  but  each  one  as  it  touched  my 
lips  was  a  drop  of  nectar  and  a  crumb  of  am 
brosia,  a  concentrated  essence  of  all  the  pungent 
sweetness  of  the  wild-wood,  sapid,  penetrating, 
and  delicious.  I  tasted  the  odour  of  a  hundred 
blossoms  and  the  green  shimmering  of  innumer 
able  leaves  and  the  sparkle  of  sifted  sunbeams 
and  the  breath  of  highland  breezes  and  the  song 
of  many  birds  and  the  murmur  of  flowing 
streams, — all  in  a  wild  strawberry. 

Do  you  remember,  in  The  Compleat  Angler, 
a  remark  which  Izaak  Walton  quotes  from  a 
certain  "  Doctor  Boteler  "  about  strawberries  ? 
"  Doubtless"  said  that  wise  old  man,  "  God 
could  have  made  a  better  berry,  but  doubtless 
God  never  did." 

Well,  the  wild  strawberry  is  the  one  that  God 
made. 

I  think  it  would  have  been  pleasant  to  know  a 
man  who  could  sum  up  his  reflections  upon  the 
important  question  of  berries  in  such  a  pithy 
saying  as  that  which  Walton  repeats.  His 
tongue  must  have  been  in  close  communication 
with  his  heart.  He  must  have  had  a  fair  sense 


86  A  Wild  Strawberry 

of  that  sprightly  humour  without  which  piety 
itself  is  often  insipid. 

I  have  often  tried  to  find  out  more  about  him, 
and  some  day  I  hope  I  shall.     But  up  to  the 
present,  all  that  the  books  have  told  me  of  this 
obscure  sage  is  that  his  name  was  William  But 
ler,  and  that  he  was  an  eminent  physician,  some 
times  called  "  the  ^Esculapius  of  his  age."     He 
was  born  at  Ipswich,  in  1535,  and  educated  at 
Clare  Hall,  Cambridge;  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  which  town  he  appears  to  have  spent  the  most 
of  his  life,  in  high  repute  as  a  practitioner  of 
physic.     He  had  the  honour  of  doctoring  King 
James  the  First  after  an  accident  on  the  hunting 
field,  and  must  have  proved  himself  a  pleasant 
old  fellow,  for  the  king  looked  him  up  at  Cam 
bridge  the  next  year,  and  spent  an  hour  in  his 
lodgings.     This  wise  physician  also  invented  a 
medicinal    beverage    called   "  Doctor    Butler's 
Ale."     I  do  not  quite  like  the  sound  of  it,  but 
perhaps  it  was  better  than  its  name.     This  much 
is  sure,  at  all  events  :  either  it  was  really  a  harm 
less  drink,  or  else  the  doctor  must  have  confined 
its  use  entirely  to  his  patients;  for  he  lived  to 
the  ripe  age  of  eighty-three  years. 

Between  the  time  when  William  Butler  first 


A  Wild,  Strawberry  87 

needed  the  services  of  a  physician,  in  1535,  and 
the  time  when  he  last  prescribed  for  a  patient,  in 
1618,  there  was  plenty  of  trouble  in  England. 
Bloody  Queen  Mary  sat  on  the  throne ;  and  there 
were  all  kinds  of  quarrels  about  religion  and 
politics;  and  Ca'tholics  and  Protestants  were 
killing  one  another  in  the  name  of  God.  After 
that  the  red-haired  Elizabeth,  called  the  Virgin 
Queen,  wore  the  crown,  and  waged  triumphant 
war  and  tempestuous  love.  Then  fat  James  of 
Scotland  was  made  king  of  Great  Britain;  and 
Guy  Fawkes  tried  to  blow  him  up  with  gun 
powder,  and  failed;  and  the  king  tried  to  blow 
out  all  the  pipes  in  England  with  his  Counter 
blast  against  Tobacco ;  but  he  failed  too.  Some 
where  about  that  time,  early  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  a  very  small  event  happened.  A  new 
berry  was  brought  over  from  Virginia, — Fra- 
graria  Virginiana, — and  then,  amid  wars  and 
rumours  of  wars,  Doctor  Butler's  happiness  was 
secure.  That  new  berry  was  so  much  richer  and 
sweeter  and  more  generous  than  the  familiar 
Fragraria  vesca  of  Europe,  that  it  attracted  the 
sincere  interest  of  all  persons  of  good  taste.  It 
inaugurated  a  new  era  in  the  history  of  the 
strawberry.  The  long  lost  masterpiece  of  Para- 


A  Wild  Strawberry 


disc  was  restored  to  its  true  place  in  the  affec 
tions  of  man. 

Is  there  not  a  touch  of  merry  contempt  for  all 
the  vain  controversies  and  conflicts  of  humanity 
in  the  grateful  ejaculation  with  which  the  old 
doctor  greeted  that  peaceful,  comforting  gift  of 
Providence  ? 

"  From  this  time  forward,"  he  seems  to  say, 
"  the  fates  cannot  beggar  me,  for  I  have  eaten 
strawberries.  With  every  Maytime  that  visits 
this  distracted  island,  the  white  blossoms  with 
hearts  of  gold  will  arrive.  In  every  June  the 
red  drops  of  pleasant  savour  will  hang  among 
the  scalloped  leaves.  The  children  of  this  world 
may  wrangle  and  give  one  another  wounds  that 
even  my  good  ale  cannot  cure.  Nevertheless, 
the  earth  as  God  created  it  is  a  fair  dwelling  and 
full  of  comfort  for  all  who  have  a  quiet  mind 
and  a  thankful  heart.  Doubtless  God  might 
have  made  a  better  world,  but  doubtless  this  is 
the  world  He  made  for  us ;  and  in  it  He  planted 
the  strawberry." 

Fine  old  doctor !  Brave  philosopher  of  cheer 
fulness  !  The  Virginian  berry  should  have  been 
brought  to  England  sooner,  or  you  should  have 
lived  longer,  at  least  to  a  hundred  years,  so  that 


A  Wild  Strawberry  89 

you  might  have  welcomed  a  score  of  strawberry- 
seasons  with  gratitude  and  an  epigram. 

Since  that  time  a  great  change  has  passed  over 
the  fruit  which  Doctor  Butler  praised  so  well. 
That  product  of  creative  art  which  Divine  wis 
dom  did  not  choose  to  surpass,  human  industry 
has  laboured  to  improve.  It  has  grown  im 
mensely  in  size  and  substance.  The  traveller 
from  America  who  steams  into  Queenstown 
harbour  in  early  summer  is  presented  (for  a 
consideration)  with  a  cabbage-leaf  full  of  pale- 
hued  berries,  sweet  and  juicy,  any  one  of  which 
would  outbulk  a  dozen  of  those  that  used  to 
grow  in  Virginia  when  Pocahontas  was  smitten 
with  the  charms  of  Captain  John  Smith.  They 
are  superb,  those  light-tinted  Irish  strawberries. 
And  there  are  wonderful  new  varieties  devel 
oped  in  the  gardens  of  New  Jersey  and  Rhode 
Island,  which  compare  with  the  ancient  berries 
of  the  woods  and  meadows  as  Leviathan  with 
a  minnow.  The  huge  crimson  cushions  hang 
among  the  plants  so  thick  that  they  seem  like 
bunches  of  fruit  with  a  few  leaves  attached  for 
ornament.  You  can  satisfy  your  hunger  in 
such  a  berry-patch  in  ten  minutes,  while  out  in 
the  field  you  must  pick  for  half  an  hour,  and 


go  A  Wild.  Strawberry 

in  the  forest  thrice  as  long,  before  you  can  fill 
a  small  tin  cup. 

Yet,  after  all,  it  is  questionable  whether  men 
have  really  bettered  God's  chef  d'ceuvre  in  the 
berry  line.  They  have  enlarged  it  and  made 
it  more  plentiful  and  more  certain  in  its  har 
vest.  But  sweeter,  more  fragrant,  more  poig 
nant  in  its  flavour?  No.  The  wild  berry  still 
stands  first  in  its  subtle  gusto. 

Size  is  not  the  measure  of  excellence.  Per 
fection  lies  in  quality,  not  in  quantity.  Con 
centration  enhances  pleasure,  gives  it  a  point  so 
that  it  goes  deeper. 

Is  not  a  ten-inch  trout  better  than  a  ten- foot 
sturgeon?  I  would  rather  read  a  tiny  essay 
by  Charles  Lamb  than  a  five-hundred  page  libel 
on  life  by  a  modern  British  novelist  who  shall 
be  nameless.  Flavour  is  the  priceless  quality. 
Style  is  the  thing  that  counts  and  is  remembered, 
in  literature,  in  art,  and  in  berries. 

No  Jocunda,  nor  Triumph,  nor  Victoria,  nor 
any  other  high-titled  fruit  that  ever  took  the 
first  prize  at  an  agricultural  fair,  is  half  so  deli 
cate  and  satisfying  as  the  wild  strawberry  that 
dropped  into  my  mouth,  under  the  hemlock  tree, 
beside  the  Swift  water, 


A  Wild,  Strawberry  91 

A  touch  of  surprise  is  essential  to  perfect 
sweetness. 

To  get  what  you  have  been  wishing  for  is 
pleasant ;  but  to  get  what  you  have  not  been  sure 
of,  makes  the  pleasure  tingle.  A  new  door  of 
happiness  is  opened  when  you  go  out  to  hunt 
for  something  and  discover  it  with  your  own 
eyes.  But  there  is  an  experience  even  better 
than  that.  When  you  have  stupidly  forgotten 
(or  despondently  forgone)  to  look  about  you 
for  the  unclaimed  treasures  and  unearned  bless 
ings  which  are  scattered  along  the  by-ways  of 
life,  then,  sometimes  by  a  special  mercy,  a  small 
sample  of  them  is  quietly  laid  before  you  so 
that  you  cannot  help  seeing  it,  and  it  brings  you 
back  to  a  sense  of  the  joyful  possibilities  of 
living. 

How  full  of  enjoyment  is  the  search  after 
wild  things, — wild  birds,  wild  flowers,  wild 
honey,  wild  berries!  There  was  a  country 
club  on  Storm  King  Mountain,  above  the  Hud 
son  River,  where  they  used  to  celebrate  a  festi 
val  of  flowers  every  spring.  Men  and  women 
who  had  conservatories  of  their  own,  full  of 
rare  plants  and  costly  orchids,  came  together  to 
admire  the  gathered  blossoms  of  the  woodlands 


92  A  Wild  Strawberry 

and  meadows.  But  the  people  who  had  the  best 
of  the  entertainment  were  the  boys  and  girls 
who  wandered  through  the  thickets  and  down 
the  brooks,  pushed  their  way  into  the  tangled 
copses  and  crept  venturesomely  across  the 
swamps,  to  look  for  the  flowers.  Some  of  the 
seekers  may  have  had  a  few  grey  hairs ;  but  for 
that  day  at  least  they  were  all  boys  and  girls. 
Nature  was  as  young  as  ever,  and  they  were  all 
her  children.  Hand  touched  hand  without  a 
glove.  The  hidden  blossoms  of  friendship 
unfolded.  Laughter  and  merry  shouts  and 
snatches  of  half-forgotten  song  rose  to  the  lips. 
Gay  adventure  sparkled  in  the  air.  School  was 
out  and  nobody  listened  for  the  bell.  It  was 
just  a  day  to  live,  and  be  natural,  and  take  no 
thought  for  the  morrow. 

There  is  great  luck  in  this  affair  of  looking 
for  flowers.  I  do  not  see  how  anyone  who  is 
prejudiced  against  games  of  chance  can  con 
sistently  undertake  it. 

For  my  own  part,  I  approve  of  garden  flowers 
because  they  are  so  orderly  and  so  certain;  but 
wild  flowers  I  love,  just  because  there  is  so  much 
chance  about  them.  Nature  is  all  in  favour  of 
certainty  in  great  laws  and  of  uncertainty  in 


A  Wild  Strawberry  93 

small  events.  You  cannot  appoint  the  day  and 
the  place  for  her  flower-shows.  If  you  happen 
to  drop  in  at  the  right  moment  she  will  give 
you  a  free  admission.  But  even  then  it  seems  as 
if  the  table  of  beauty  had  been  spread  for  the 
joy  of  a  higher  visitor,  and  in  obedience  to 
secret  orders  which  you  have  not  heard. 
Have  you  ever  found  the  fringed  gentian  ? 

"  Just  before  the  snows, 
There  came  a  purple  creature 

That  lavished  all  the  hill; 
And  summer  hid  her  forehead, 

And  mockery  was  still. 

The  frosts  were  her  condition: 
The  Tyrian  would  not  come 

Until  the  North  evoked  her, — 
'  Creator,  shall  I  bloom?  '  " 

There  are  strange  freaks  of  fortune  in  the 
finding  of  wild  flowers,  and  curious  coincidences 
which  make  us  feel  as  if  someone  were  playing 
friendly  tricks  on  us.  I  remember  reading, 
one  evening  in  May,  a  passage  in  a  good  book 
called  The  Procession  of  the  Flowers,  in  which 


94  A  Wild  Strawberry 

Colonel  Higginson  describes  the  singular  luck 
that  a  friend  of  his  enjoyed,  year  after  year,  in 
finding  the  rare  blossoms  of  the  double  rueane- 
mone.  It  seems  that  this  man  needed  only  to 
take  a  walk  in  the  suburbs  of  any  town,  and  he 
would  come  upon  a  bed  of  these  flowers,  with 
out  effort  or  design.  I  envied  him  his  good 
fortune,  for  I  had  never  discovered  even  one  of 
them.  But  the  next  morning,  as  I  strolled  out 
to  fish  the  Swiftwater,  down  below  Billy  Lerns's 
spring-house  I  found  a  green  bank  in  the  shadow 
of  the  wood  all  bespangled  with  tiny,  trembling, 
twofold  stars, — double  rueanemones,  for  luck! 
It  was  a  favourable  omen,  and  that  day  I  came 
home  with  a  creel  full  of  trout. 

The  theory  that  Adam  lived  out  in  the  woods 
for  some  time  before  he  was  put  into  the  gar 
den  of  Eden  "  to  dress  it  and  to  keep  it "  has 
an  air  of  probability.  How  else  shall  we  ac 
count  for  the  arboreal  instincts  that  cling  to  his 
posterity  ? 

There  is  a  wilding  strain  in  our  blood  that  all 
the  civilisation  in  the  world  will  not  eradicate. 
I  never  knew  a  real  boy — or,  for  that  matter, 
a  girl  worth  knowing — who  would  not  rather 


A  Wild  Strawberry  95 

climb  a  tree,  any  day,  than  walk  up  a  golden 
stairway. 

It  is  a  touch  of  this  instinct,  I  suppose,  that 
makes  it  more  delightful  to  fish  in  the  most  in 
significant  of  free  streams  than  in  a  carefully 
stocked  and  preserved  pond,  where  the  fish  are 
brought  up  by  hand  and  fed  on  minced  liver. 
Such  elaborate  precautions  to  ensure  good  luck 
extract  all  the  spice  from  the  sport  of  angling. 
Casting  the  fly  in  such  a  pond,  if  you  hooked  a 
fish,  you  might  expect  to  hear  the  keeper  say, 
"  Ah,  that  is  Charles,  we  will  play  him  and  put 
him  back,  if  you  please,  sir;  for  the  master  is 
very  fond  of  him," — or,  "  Now  you  have  got 
hold  of  Edward;  let  us  land  him  and  keep  him; 
he  is  three  years  old  this  month,  and  just  ready 
to  be  eaten."  It  would  seem  like  taking  trout 
out  of  cold  storage. 

Who  could  find  any  pleasure  in  angling  for 
the  tame  carp  in  the  fish-pool  of  Fontainebleau  ? 
They  gather  at  the  marble  steps,  those  vener 
able,  courtly  fish,  to  receive  their  rations;  and 
there  are  veterans  among  them,  in  ancient  livery, 
with  fringes  of  green  moss  on  their  shoulders, 
who  could  tell  you  pretty  tales  of  being  fed  by 
the  white  hands  of  maids  of  honour,  or  even  of 


96  A  Wild.  Strawberry 

nibbling  their  crumbs  of  bread  from  the  jewelled 
fingers  of  a  princess. 

There  is  no  sport  in  bringing  pets  to  the  table. 
It  may  be  necessary  sometimes ;  but  the  true 
sportsman  would  always  prefer  to  leave  the  un 
pleasant  task  of  execution  to  menial  hands, 
while  he  goes  out  into  the  wild  country  to  cap 
ture  his  game  by  his  own  skill, — if  he  has  good 
luck.  I  would  rather  run  some  risk  in  this 
enterprise  (even  as  the  young  Tobias  did,  when 
the  voracious  pike  sprang  at  him  from  the  waters 
of  the  Tigris,  and  would  have  devoured  him  but 
for  the  friendly  instruction  of  the  piscatory 
Angel,  who  taught  Tobias  how  to  land  the  mon 
ster), — I  would  far  rather  take  any  number  of 
chances  in  my  sport  than  have  it  domesticated 
to  the  point  of  dullness. 

The  trim  plantations  of  trees  which  are  called 
"  forests  "  in  certain  parts  of  Europe — scienti 
fically  pruned  and  tended,  counted  every  year  by 
uniformed  foresters,  and  defended  against  all 
possible  depredations — are  admirable  and  useful 
in  their  way;  but  they  lack  the  mystic  enchant 
ment  of  the  fragments  of  native  woodland 
which  linger  among  the  Adirondacks  and  the 
White  Mountains,  or  the  vast,  shaggy,  sylvan 


A  Wild,  Strawberry  97 

wildernesses  which  hide  the  lakes  and  rivers  of 
Canada.  These  Laurentian  Hills  lie  in  No 
Man's  Land.  Here  you  do  not  need  to  keep  to 
the  path,  for  there  is  none.  You  may  make 
your  own  trail,  whithersoever  fancy  leads  you; 
and  at  night  you  may  pitch  your  tent  under  any 
tree  that  looks  friendly  and  firm. 

Here,  if  anywhere,  you  shall  find  Dryads,  and 
Naiads,  and  Oreads.  And  if  you  chance  to  see 
one,  by  moonlight,  combing  her  long  hair  beside 
the  glimmering  waterfall,  or  slipping  silently, 
with  gleaming  shoulders,  through  the  grove  of 
silver  birches,  you  may  call  her  by  the  name  that 
pleases  you  best.  She  is  all  your  own  dis 
covery.  There  is  no  social  directory  in  the  wil 
derness. 

One  side  of  our  nature,  no  doubt,  finds  its 
satisfaction  in  the  regular,  the  proper,  the  con 
ventional.  But  there  is  another  side  of  our 
nature,  underneath,  that  takes  delight  in  the 
strange,  the  free,  the  spontaneous.  We  like  to 
discover  what  we  call  a  law  of  Nature,  and  make 
our  calculations  about  it,  and  harness  the 
force  which  lies  behind  it  for  our  own  purposes. 
But  we  taste  a  different  kind  of  joy  when  an 
event  occurs  which  nobody  has  foreseen  or 
4 


A  Wild.  Strawberry 


counted  upon.  It  seems  like  an  evidence  that 
there  is  something  in  the  world  which  is  alive 
and  mysterious  and  untrammelled. 

The  weather-prophet  tells  us  of  an  approach 
ing  storm.  It  comes  according  to  the  pro 
gramme.  We  admire  the  accuracy  of  the  pre 
diction,  and  congratulate  ourselves  that  we  have 
such  a  good  meteorological  service.  But  when, 
perchance,  a  bright,  crystalline  piece  of  weather 
arrives  instead  of  the  foretold  tempest,  do  we 
not  feel  a  secret  sense  of  pleasure  which  goes 
beyond  our  mere  comfort  in  the  sunshine?  The 
whole  affair  is  not  as  easy  as  a  sum  in  simple 
addition,  after  all, — at  least  not  with  our  present 
knowledge.  It  is  a  good  joke  on  the  Weather 
Bureau.  "  Aha,  Old  Probabilities !  "  we  say, 
"  you  don't  know  it  all  yet ;  there  are  still  some 
chances  to  be  taken !  " 

Some  day,  I  suppose,  all  things  in  the  heavens 
above,  and  in  the  earth  beneath,  and  in  the 
hearts  of  the  men  and  women  who  dwell  be 
tween,  will  be  investigated  and  explained.  We 
shall  live  a  perfectly  ordered  life,  with  no  acci 
dents,  happy  or  unhappy.  Everybody  will  act 
according  to  rule,  and  there  will  be  no  dotted 


A  Wild  Strawberry  99 

lines  on  the  map  of  human  existence,  no  regions 
marked  "  unexplored."  Perhaps  that  golden 
age  of  the  machine  will  come,  but  you  and  I 
will  hardly  live  to  see  it.  And  if  that  seems  to 
you  a  matter  for  tears,  you  must  do  your  own 
weeping,  for  I  cannot  find  it  in  my  heart  to  add 
a  single  drop  of  regret. 

The  results  of  education  and  social  discipline 
in  humanity  are  fine.  It  is  a  good  thing  that 
we  can  count  upon  them.  But  at  the  same  time 
let  us  rejoice  in  the  play  of  native  traits  and  indi 
vidual  vagaries.  Cultivated  manners  are  admir 
able,  yet  there  is  a  sudden  touch  of  inborn  grace 
and  courtesy  that  goes  beyond  them  all.  No 
array  of  accomplishments  can  rival  the  charm  of 
an  unsuspected  gift  of  nature,  brought  suddenly 
to  light.  I  once  heard  a  peasant  girl  singing 
down  the  Traunthal,  and  the  echo  of  her  song 
outlives,  in  the  hearing  of  my  heart,  all  memories 
of  the  grand  opera. 

The  harvest  of  the  gardens  and  the  orchards, 
the  result  of  prudent  planting  and  patient  culti 
vation,  is  full  of  satisfaction.  We  anticipate  it 
in  due  season,  and  when  it  comes  we  fill  our 
mouths  and  are  grateful.  But  pray,  kind  Pro- 


ioo  A  Wild,  Strawberry 

vidence,  let  me  slip  over  the  fence  out  of  the 
garden  now  and  then,  to  shake  a  nut-tree  that 
grows  untended  in  the  wood.  Give  me  liberty 
to  put  off  my  black  coat  for  a  day,  and  go 
a-fishing  on  a  free  stream,  and  find  by  chance 
a  wild  strawberry. 


Lovers  and.  Landscape 


"  He  insisted  that  the  love  that  was  of  real  value  in  the 
world  wasn't  interesting,  and  that  the  love  that  was  inter 
esting  wasn't  always  admirable.  Love  that  happened  to 
a  person  like  the  measles  or  fits,  and  was  really  of  no  par 
ticular  credit  to  itself  or  its  victims,  was  the  sort  that  got 
into  the  books  and  was  made  much  of;  whereas  the  kind 
that  was  attained  by  the  endeavour  of  true  souls,  and  that 
had  wear  in  it,  and  that  made  things  go  right  instead  of 
tangling  them  up,  was  too  much  like  duty  to  make  satis 
factory  reading  for  people  of  sentiment." — E.  S.  MARTIN  : 
My  Cousin  Anthony. 

r  I  "HE  first  day  of  spring  is  one  thing,  and  the 
•*-       first  spring  day  is  another.     The  differ 
ence  between  them  is  sometimes  as  great  as  a 
month. 

The  first  day  of  spring  is  due  to  arrive,  if  the 
calendar  does  not  break  down,  about  the  twenty- 
first  of  March,  when  the  earth  turns  the  corner 
of  Sun  Alley  and  starts  for  Summer  Street.  But 
the  first  spring  day  is  not  on  the  time-table  at  all. 
It  comes  when  it  is  ready,  and  in  the  latitude  of 


IO2  Lovers  and  Landscape 

New  York  this  is  usually  not  till  after  All  Fools' 
Day. 

About  this  time, — 

"  When  chinks  in  April's  windy  dome 

Let  through  a  day  of  June, 
And  foot  and  thought  incline  to  roam, 
And  every  sound's  a  tune," — 

it  is  the  habit  of  the  angler  who  lives  in  town 
to  prepare  for  the  labours  of  the  approaching 
season  by  longer  walks  or  bicycle-rides  in  the 
parks,  or  along  the  riverside,  or  in  the  somewhat 
demoralised  Edens  of  the  suburbs.  In  the 
course  of  these  vernal  peregrinations  and  cir- 
cumrotations,  I  observe  that  lovers  of  various 
kinds  begin  to  occupy  a  notable  place  in  the 
landscape. 

The  burnished  dove  puts  a  livelier  iris  around 
his  neck,  and  practises  fantastic  bows  and 
amorous  quicksteps  along  the  verandah  of  the 
pigeon-house  and  on  every  convenient  roof.  The 
young  male  of  the  human  species,  less  gifted  in 
the  matter  of  rainbows,  does  his  best  with  a  gay 
cravat,  and  turns  the  thoughts  which  circulate 
above  it  towards  the  securing  or  propitiating  of 
a  best  girl. 


Lovers  and  Landscape  103 

The  objects  of  these  more  or  less  brilliant 
attentions,  doves  and  girls,  show  a  becoming 
reciprocity,  and  act  in  a  way  which  leads  us  to 
infer  (so  far  as  inferences  hold  good  in  the 
mysterious  region  of  female  conduct)  that  they 
are  not  seriously  displeased.  To  a  rightly  tem 
pered  mind,  pleasure  is  a  pleasant  sight.  And 
the  philosophic  observer  who  could  look  upon 
this  spring  spectacle  of  the  lovers  with  any  but 
friendly  feelings  would  be  indeed  what  the 
great  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  called  "  a  person  not 
to  be  envied." 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  fall  into  such  a  desic 
cated  and  supercilious  mood.  My  small  olive- 
branch  of  fancy  will  be  withered,  in  truth,  and 
ready  to  drop  budless  from  the  tree,  when  I 
cease  to  feel  a  mild  delight  in  the  billings  and 
cooings  of  the  little  birds  that  separate  from  the 
flocks  to  fly  together  in  pairs,  or  in  the  un- 
instructive  but  mutually  satisfactory  converse 
which  Strephon  holds  with  Chloe  while  they 
dally  along  the  primrose  path. 

I  am  glad  that  even  the  stony  and  tumultuous 
city  affords  some  opportunities  for  these  ami 
able  observations.  In  the  month  of  April  there 
is  hardly  a  clump  of  shrubbery  in  the  Central 


104  Lovers  and  Landscape 

Park  which  will  not  serve  as  a  trysting-place 
for  yellow  warblers  and  catbirds  just  home  from 
their  southern  tours.  At  the  same  time  you 
shall  see  many  a  bench,  designed  for  the  accom 
modation  of  six  persons,  occupied  at  the  sunset 
hour  by  only  two,  and  apparently  so  much  too 
small  for  them  that  they  cannot  avoid  a  little 
crowding. 

These  are  infallible  signs.  Taken  in  conjunc 
tion  with  the  eruption  of  tops  and  marbles 
among  the  small  boys,  and  the  purchase  of  fish 
ing-tackle  and  golf -clubs  by  the  old  boys,  they 
certify  us  that  the  vernal  equinox  has  arrived, 
not  only  in  the  celestial  regions,  but  also  in  the 
heart  of  man. 

I  have  been  reflecting  of  late  upon  the  rela 
tion  of  lovers  to  the  landscape,  and  questioning 
whether  art  has  given  it  quite  the  same  place  as 
that  which  belongs  to  it  in  nature.  In  fiction, 
for  example,  and  in  the  drama,  and  in  music,  I 
have  some  vague  misgivings  that  romantic  love 
has  come  to  hold  a  more  prominent  and  a  more 
permanent  position  than  it  fills  in  real  life. 

This  is  dangerous  ground  to  venture  upon, 
even  in  the  most  modest  and  deprecatory  way. 


Lovers  and  Landscape  105 

The  man  who  expresses  an  opinion,  or  even  a 
doubt,  on  this  subject,  contrary  to  the  ruling 
traditions,  will  have  a  swarm  of  angry  critics 
buzzing  about  him.  He  will  be  called  a  heretic, 
a  heathen,  a  cold-blooded  freak  of  nature.  As 
for  the  woman  who  hesitates  to  subscribe  all  the 
thirty-nine  articles  of  romantic  love,  if  such  an 
one  dares  to  put  her  reluctance  into  words,  she 
is  certain  to  be  accused  either  of  unwomanly 
ambition  or  of  feminine  disappointment. 

Let  us  make  haste,  then,  to  get  back  for  safety 
to  the  ornithological  aspect  of  the  subject.  Here 
there  can  be  no  penalties  for  heresy.  And  here 
I  make  bold  to  avow  my  conviction  that  the 
pairing  season  is  not  the  only  point  of  interest 
in  the  life  of  the  birds;  nor  is  the  instinct  by 
which  they  mate  altogether  and  beyond  compari 
son  the  noblest  passion  that  stirs  their  feathered 
breasts. 

Tis  true,  the  time  of  mating  is  their  prettiest 
season;  but  it  is  very  short.  How  little  we 
should  know  of  the  drama  of  their  airy  life  if  we 
had  eyes  only  for  this  brief  scene !  Their  finest 
qualities  come  out  in  the  patient  cares  that  pro 
tect  the  young  in  the  nest,  in  the  varied  struggles 
for  existence  through  the  changing  year,  and  in 
4* 


Io6  Lovers  and  Landscape 

the  incredible  heroisms  of  the  annual  migration. 
Herein  is  a  parable. 

It  may  be  observed  further,  without  fear  of 
rebuke,  that  the  behaviour  of  the  different  kinds 
of  birds  during  the  prevalence  of  romantic  love 
is  not  always  equally  above  reproach.  The 
courtship  of  English  sparrows — blustering, 
noisy,  vulgar — is  a  sight  to  offend  the  taste  of 
every  gentle  onlooker.  Some  birds  reiterate 
and  vociferate  their  love-songs  in  a  fashion  that 
displays  their  inconsiderateness  as  well  as  their 
ignorance  of  music.  This  trait  is  most  marked 
in  domestic  fowls.  There  was  a  guinea-cock, 
once,  that  chose  to  do  his  wooing  close  under  the 
window  of  a  farm-house  where  I  was  lodged. 
He  had  no  regard  for  my  hours  of  sleep  or  medi 
tation.  His  amatory  click-clack  prevented  the 
morning  and  wrecked  the  tranquillity  of  the 
evening.  It  was  odious,  brutal, — worse,  it  was 
absolutely  thoughtless.  Herein  is  another 
parable. 

Let  us  admit  cheerfully  that  lovers  have  a 
place  in  the  landscape  and  lend  a  charm  to  it. 
This  does  not  mean  that  they  are  to  take  up  all 
the  room  there  is.  Suppose,  for  example,  that 
a  pair  of  them,  on  Goat  Island,  put  themselves 


Lovers  and  Landscape  107 

in  such  a  position  as  to  completely  block  out 
your  view  of  Niagara.  You  cannot  regard 
them  with  gratitude.  They  even  become  a  little 
tedious.  Or  suppose  that  you  are  visiting  at  a 
country-house,  and  you  find  that  you  must  not 
enjoy  the  moonlight  on  the  verandah  because 
Augustus  and  Amanda  are  murmuring  in  one 
corner,  and  that  you  must  not  go  into  the  gar 
den  because  Louis  and  Lizzie  are  there,  and  that 
you  cannot  have  a  sail  on  the  lake  because 
Richard  and  Rebecca  have  taken  the  boat. 

Of  course,  unless  you  happen  to  be  a  selfish 
old  curmudgeon,  you  rejoice,  by  sympathy,  in 
the  happiness  of  these  estimable  young  people. 
But  you  fail  to  see  why  it  should  cover  so  much 
ground. 

Why  should  they  not  pool  their  interests,  and 
all  go  out  in  the  boat,  or  all  walk  in  the  garden, 
or  all  sit  on  the  verandah?  Then  there  would 
be  room  for  somebody  else  about  the  place. 

In  old  times  you  could  rely  upon  lovers  for 
retirement.  But  nowadays  their  role  seems 
to  be  a  bold  ostentation  of  their  condition.  They 
rely  upon  other  people  to  do  the  timid,  shrinking 
part.  Society,  in  America,  is  arranged  princi 
pally  for  their  convenience;  and  whatever  por- 


io8  Lovers  and  Landscape 

tion  of  the  landscape  strikes  their  fancy,  they 
preempt  and  occupy.  All  this  goes  upon  the 
presumption  that  romantic  love  is  really  the 
only  important  interest  in  life. 

This  train  of  thought  was  illuminated,  the 
other  night,  by  an  incident  which  befell  me  at  a 
party.  It  was  an  assembly  of  men,  drawn  to 
gether  by  their  common  devotion  to  the  sport  of 
canoeing.  There  were  only  three  or  four  of 
the  gentler  sex  present  (as  honorary  members), 
and  only  one  of  whom  it  could  be  suspected  that 
she  was  at  that  time  a  victim  or  an  object  of  the 
tender  passion.  In  the  course  of  the  evening, 
by  way  of  diversion  to  our  disputations  on  keels 
and  centreboards,  canvas  and  birch-bark,  cedar- 
wood  and  bass-wood,  paddles  and  steering-gear, 
a  fine  young  Apollo,  with  a  big,  manly  voice, 
sang  us  a  few  songs.  But  he  did  not  chant 
the  joys  of  weathering  a  sudden  squall,  or  run 
ning  a  rapid  feather-white  with  foam,  or  float 
ing  down  a  long,  quiet,  elm-bowered  river.  Not 
at  all.  His  songs  were  full  of  sighs  and  yearn 
ings,  languid  lips  and  sheep's-eyes.  His  powerful 
voice  informed  us  that  crowns  of  thorns  seemed 
like  garlands  of  roses,  and  kisses  were  as  sweet 
as  samples  of  heaven,  and  various  other  curious 


Lovers  and  Landscape  109 

sensations  were  experienced ;  and  at  the  end  of 
every  stanza  the  reason  was  stated,  in  tones  of 
thunder — 

"  Because  I  love  you,  dear." 

Even  if  true,  it  seemed  inappropriate.  How 
foolish  the  average  audience  in  a  drawing-room 
looks  while  it  is  listening  to  passionate  love-dit 
ties  !  And  yet  I  suppose  the  singer  chose  these 
songs,  not  from  any  malice  aforethought,  but 
simply  because  songs  of  this  kind  are  so  abun 
dant  that  it  is  next  to  impossible  to  find  any 
thing  else  in  the  shops. 

In  regard  to  novels,  the  situation  is  almost  as 
discouraging.  Ten  love-stories  are  printed  to 
one  of  any  other  kind.  We  have  a  standing 
invitation  to  consider  the  tribulations  and  diffi 
culties  of  some  young  man  or  young  woman  in 
finding  a  mate.  It  must  be  admitted  that  the 
subject  has  its  capabilities  of  interest.  Nature 
has  her  uses  for  the  lover,  and  she  gives  him  an 
excellent  part  to  play  in  the  drama  of  life.  But 
is  this  tantamount  to  saying  that  his  interest  is 
perennial  and  all-absorbing,  and  that  his  role 
on  the  stage  is  the  only  one  that  is  significant 
and  noteworthy? 


no  Lovers  and  Landscape 

Life  is  much  too  large  to  be  expressed  in  the 
terms  of  a  single  passion.  Friendship,  patriot 
ism,  parental  tenderness,  filial  devotion,  the  ar 
dour  of  adventure,  the  thirst  for  knowledge,  the 
ecstasy  of  religion, — these  all  have  their  dwell 
ing  in  the  heart  of  man.  They  mould  charac 
ter.  They  control  conduct.  They  are  stars  of 
destiny  shining  in  the  inner  firmament.  And  if 
art  would  truly  hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature, 
it  must  reflect  these  greater  and  lesser  lights  that 
rule  the  day  and  the  night. 

How  many  of  the  plays  that  divert  and  mis 
inform  the  modern  theatre-goer  turn  on  the 
pivot  of  a  love-affair,  not  always  pure,  but 
generally  simple!  And  how  many  of  those 
that  are  imported  from  France  proceed  upon  the 
theory  that  the  Seventh  is  the  only  Command 
ment,  and  that  the  principal  attraction  of  life 
lies  in  the  opportunity  of  breaking  it!  The 
matinee-girl  is  not  likely  to  have  a  very  luminous 
or  truthful  idea  of  existence  floating  around  in 
her  pretty  little  head. 

But,  after  all,  the  great  plays,  those  that  take 
the  deepest  hold  upon  the  heart,  like  Hamlet 
and  King  Lear,  Macbeth  and  Othello,  are  not 
love-plays.  And  the  most  charming  comedies, 


Lovers  and  Landscape  ill 

like  The  Winter's  Tale,  and  The  Rivals,  and 
Rip  Van  Winkle,  are  chiefly  memorable  for 
other  things  than  love-scenes. 

Even  in  novels,  love  shows  at  its  best  when 
it  does  not  absorb  the  whole  plot.  Lorna  Doone 
is  a  lovers'  story,  but  there  is  a  blessed  minimum 
of  spooning  in  it,  and  always  enough  of  work 
ing  and  fighting  to  keep  the  air  clear  and  fresh. 
The  Heart  of  Midlothian,  and  Hypatia,  and 
Romola,  and  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth,  and 
John  Inglesant,  and  The  Three  Musketeers, 
and  Notre  Dame,  and  Peace  and  War,  and  Quo 
Vadis? — these  are  great  novels  because  they  are 
much  more  than  tales  of  romantic  love.  As  for 
Henry  Esmond  (which  seems  to  me  the  best 
of  all),  certainly  "love  at  first  sight  does  not 
play  the  finest  role  in  that  book. 

There  are  good  stories  of  our  own  day — pa 
thetic,  humorous,  entertaining,  powerful — in 
which  the  element  of  romantic  love  is  altogether 
subordinate,  or  even  imperceptible.  The  Rise  of 
Silas  Lapham  does  not  owe  its  deep  interest  to 
the  engagement  of  the  very  charming  young 
people  who  enliven  it.  Madame  Delphine  and 
Ole  'Stracted  are  perfect  stories  of  their  kind.  I 


112  Lovers  and,  Landscape 

would  not  barter  The  Jungle  Books  for  a  hun 
dred  of  The  Brushwood  Boy. 

The  truth  is  that  love,  considered  merely  as 
the  preference  of  one  person  for  another  of  the 
opposite  sex,  is  not  "  the  greatest  thing  in  the 
world."  It  becomes  great  only  when  it  leads 
on,  as  it  often  does,  to  heroism  and  self-sacrifice 
and  fidelity.  Its  chief  value  for  art  (the  inter 
preter)  lies  not  in  itself,  but  in  its  quickening 
relation  to  the  other  elements  of  life.  It  must 
be  seen  and  shown  in  its  due  proportion,  and 
in  harmony  with  the  broader  landscape. 

Do  you  believe  that  in  all  the  world  there  is 
only  one  woman  specially  created  for  each  man, 
and  that  the  order  of  the  universe  will  be  hope 
lessly  askew  unless  these  two  needles  find  each 
other  in  the  haystack  ?  You  believe  it  for  your 
self,  perhaps;  but  do  you  believe  it  for  Tom 
Johnson?  You  remember  what  a  terrific  dis 
turbance  he  made  in  the  summer  of  189-,  at 
Bar  Harbour,  about  Ellinor  Brown,  and  how  he 
ran  away  with  her  in  September.  You  have 
also  seen  them  together  (occasionally)  at 
Lenox  and  Newport,  since  their  marriage.  Are 
you  honestly  of  the  opinion  that  if  Tom  had 


Lovers  and  Landscape  113 

not  married  Ellinor,  these  two  young  lives 
would  have  been  a  total  wreck? 

Adam  Smith,  in  his  book  on  The  Moral  Sen 
timents,  goes  so  far  as  to  say  that  "  love  is  not 
interesting  to  the  observer  because  it  is  an  affec 
tion  of  the  imagination,  into  which  it  is  difficult 
for  a  third  party  to  enter."  Something  of  the 
same  kind  occurred  to  me  in  regard  to  Tom  and 
Ellinor.  Yet  I  would  not  have  presumed  to 
suggest  this  thought  to  either  of  them.  Nor 
would  I  have  quoted  in  their  hearing  the  melan 
choly  and  frigid  prediction  of  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson,  to  the  effect  that  they  would  some  day 
discover  "  that  all  which  at  first  drew  them  to 
gether — those  once  sacred  features,  that  magical 
play  of  charm — was  deciduous." 

Deciduous,  indeed?  Cold,  unpleasant,  botani 
cal  word!  Rather  would  I  prognosticate  for 
the  lovers  something  perennial, 

"  A  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss," 

to  survive  the  evanescence  of  love's  young 
dream.  Ellinor  should  turn  out  to  be  a  woman 
like  the  Lady  Elizabeth  Hastings,  of  whom 
Richard  Steele  wrote  that  "  to  love  her  was  a 
liberal  education."  Tom  should  prove  that  he 


114.  Lovers  and.  Landscape 

had  in  him  the  lasting  stuff  of  a  true  man  and 
a  hero.  Then  it  would  make  little  difference 
whether  their  conjunction  had  been  eternally 
prescribed  in  the  book  of  fate  or  not.  It  would 
be  evidently  a  fit  match,  made  on  earth  and  il 
lustrative  of  heaven. 

But  even  in  the  making  of  such  a  match  as 
this,  the  various  stages  of  attraction,  infatua 
tion,  and  appropriation,  should  not  be  dis 
played  too  prominently  before  the  world,  nor 
treated  as  events  of  overwhelming  importance 
and  enduring  moment.  I  would  not  counsel 
Tom  and  Ellinor,  in  the  midsummer  of  their 
engagement,  to  have  their  photographs  taken  to 
gether  in  affectionate  attitudes. 

The  pictures  of  an  imaginary  kind  which  deal 
with  the  subject  of  romantic  love  are,  almost 
without  exception,  fatuous  and  futile.  The 
inanely  amatory,  with  their  languishing  eyes, 
weary  us.  The  endlessly  osculatory,  with  their 
protracted  salutations,  are  sickening.  Even 
when  an  air  of  sentimental  propriety  is  thrown 
about  them  by  some  such  title  as  "  Wedded  "  or 
"  The  Honeymoon,"  they  fatigue  us.  For  the 
most  part,  they  remind  me  of  the  remark  which 
the  Commodore  made  upon  a  certain  painting  of 


Lovers  and  Landscape  115 

Jupiter  and  lo  which  hangs  in  the  writing-room 
of  the  Contrary  Club. 

"  Sir,"  said  that  gently  piercing  critic,  "  that 
picture  is  equally  unsatisfactory  to  the  artist,  to 
the  moralist,  and  to  the  voluptuary." 

Nevertheless,  having  made  a  clean  breast  of 
my  misgivings  and  reservations  on  the  subject 
of  lovers  and  landscape,  I  will  now  confess  that 
the  whole  of  my  doubts  do  not  weigh  much 
against  my  unreasoned  faith  in  romantic  love. 
At  heart  I  am  no  infidel,  but  a  most  obstinate 
believer  and  devotee.  My  reasons  of  scepticism 
are  transient.  They  are  connected  with  a  tor 
pid  liver  and  aggravated  by  confinement  to  a 
sedentary  life  and  enforced  abstinence  from 
angling.  Out-of-doors,  I  return  to  a  saner  and 
happier  frame  of  mind. 

As  my  wheel  rolls  along  the  Riverside  Drive 
in  the  golden  glow  of  the  sunset,  I  rejoice  that 
the  episode  of  Charles  Henry  and  Matilda  Jane 
has  not  been  omitted  from  the  view.  This  vast 
and  populous  city,  with  all  its  passing  show  of 
life,  would  be  little  better  than  a  waste,  howling 
wilderness  if  we  could  not  catch  a  glimpse,  now 
and  then,  of  young  people  falling  in  love  in  the 


Ii6  Lovers  and  Landscape 

good  old-fashioned  way.  Even  on  a  trout- 
stream,  I  have  seen  nothing  prettier  than  the 
sight  upon  which  I  once  came  suddenly  as  I 
was  fishing  down  the  Neversink. 

A  boy  was  kneeling  beside  the  brook,  and  a 
girl  was  giving  him  a  drink  of  water  out  of  her 
rosy  hands.  They  stared  with  wonder  and 
compassion  at  the  wet  and  solitary  angler,  wad 
ing  down  the  stream,  as  if  he  were  some  kind 
of  a  mild  lunatic.  But  as  I  glanced  discreetly 
at  their  small  tableau,  I  was  not  unconscious  of 
the  new  joy  that  came  into  the  landscape  with 
the  presence  of 

"A  lover  and  his  lass." 

I  knew  how  sweet  the  water  tasted  from  that 
kind  of  a  cup.  I  also  have  lived  in  Arcadia, 
and  have  not  forgotten  the  way  back. 


A  Fatal  Success 


"  What  surprises  me  in  her  behaviour"  said  he,  " is  its 
thoroughness.  Woman  seldom  does  things  by  halves,  but 
often  by  doubles." — SOLOMON  SINGLEWITZ:  The  Life  of 

Adam. 

r>  EEKMAN  DE  PEYSTER  was  probably 
-L*  the  most  passionate  and  triumphant 
fisherman  in  the  Petrine  Club.  He  angled  with 
the  same  dash  and  confidence  that  he  threw  into 
his  operations  in  the  stock-market.  He  was 
sure  to  be  the  first  man  to  get  his  flies  on  the 
water  at  the  opening  of  the  season.  And  when 
we  came  together  for  our  fall  meeting,  to  com 
pare  notes  of  our  wanderings  on  various  streams 
and  make  up  the  fish-stories  for  the  year,  Beek- 
man  was  almost  always  "  high  hook."  We  ex 
pected,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  hear  that  he 
had  taken  the  most  and  the  largest  fish. 

It  was  so  with  everything  that  he  undertook. 
He  was  a  masterful  man.     If  there  was  an 
unusually  large  trout  in  a  river,  Beekman  knew 
117 


n8  A  Fatal  Success 

about  it  before  anyone  else,  and  got  there  first, 
and  came  home  with  the  fish.  It  did  not  make 
him  unduly  proud,  because  there  was  nothing 
uncommon  about  it.  It  was  his  habit  to  suc 
ceed,  and  all  the  rest  of  us  were  hardened  to  it. 

When  he  married  Cornelia  Cochrane,  we  were 
consoled  for  our  partial  loss  by  the  apparent 
fitness  and  brilliancy  of  the  match.  If  Beek- 
man  was  a  masterful  man,  Cornelia  was  cer 
tainly  what  you  might  call  a  mistress  ful  woman. 
She  had  been  the  head  of  her  house  since  she 
was  eighteen  years  old.  She  carried  her  good 
looks  like  the  family  plate;  and  when  she  came 
into  the  breakfast-room  and  said  good  morning, 
it  was  with  an  air  as  if  she  presented  everyone 
with  a  cheque  for  a  thousand  dollars.  Her 
tastes  were  accepted  as  judgments,  and  her  pre 
ferences  had  the  force  of  laws.  Wherever  she 
wanted  to  go  in  the  summer-time,  there  the  fin 
ger  of  household  destiny  pointed.  At  Newport, 
at  Bar  Harbour,  at  Lenox,  at  Southampton,  she 
made  a  record.  When  she  was  joined  in  holy 
wedlock  to  Beekman  De  Peyster,  her  father  and 
mother  heaved  a  sigh  of  satisfaction,  and  settled 
down  for  a  quiet  vacation  in  Cherry  Valley. 

It  was  in  the  second  summer  after  the  wed- 


A  Fatal  Success  119 


ding  that  Beekman  admitted  to  a  few  of  his 
ancient  Petrine  cronies,  in  moments  of  confi 
dence  (unjustifiable,  but  natural),  that  his  wife 
had  one  fault. 

"  It  is  not  exactly  a  fault,"  he  said,  "  not  a 
positive  fault,  you  know.  It  is  just  a  kind  of  a 
defect,  due  to  her  education,  of  course.  In 
everything  else  she's  magnificent.  But  she 
doesn't  care  for  fishing.  She  says  it's  stupid, — 
can't  see  why  anyone  should  like  the  woods, — 
calls  camping  out  the  lunatic's  diversion.  It's 
rather  awkward  for  a  man  with  my  habits  to 
have  his  wife  take  such  a  view.  But  it  can  be 
changed  by  training.  I  intend  to  educate  her 
and  convert  her.  I  shall  make  an  angler  of  her 
yet." 

And  so  he  did. 

The  new  education  was  begun  in  the  Adiron- 
dacks,  and  the  first  lesson  was  given  at  Paul 
Smith's.  It  was  a  complete  failure. 

Beekman  persuaded  her  to  come  out  with  him 
for  a  day  on  Meacham  River,  and  promised  to 
convince  her  of  the  charm  of  angling.  She 
wore  a  new  gown,  fawn-colour  and  violet,  with 
a  picture-hat,  very  taking.  But  the  Meacham 
River  trout  was  shy  that  day ;  not  even  Beekman 


I2O  A  Fatal  Success 

could  induce  him  to  rise  to  the  fly.  What  the 
trout  lacked  in  confidence  the  mosquitoes  more 
than  made  up.  Mrs.  De  Peyster  came  home 
much  sunburned,  and  expressed  a  highly  un 
favourable  opinion  of  fishing  as  an  amusement 
and  of  Meacham  River  as  a  resort. 

"  The  nice  people  don't  come  to  the  Adiron- 
dacks  to  fish,"  said  she;  "they  come  to  talk 
about  the  fishing  twenty  years  ago.  Besides, 
what  do  you  want  to  catch  that  trout  for?  If 
you  do,  the  other  men  will  say  you  bought  it, 
and  the  hotel  will  have  to  put  in  a  new  one  for 
the  rest  of  the  season." 

The  following  year  Beekman  tried  Moose- 
head  Lake.  Here  he  found  an  atmosphere  more 
favourable  to  his  plan  of  education.  There 
were  a  good  many  people  who  really  fished,  and 
short  expeditions  in  the  woods  were  quite 
fashionable.  Cornelia  had  a  camping-costume 
of  the  most  approved  style  made  by  Dewlap  on 
Fifth  Avenue, — pearl-grey  with  linings  of  rose- 
silk, — and  consented  to  go  with  her  husband  on 
a  trip  up  Moose  River.  They  pitched  their 
tent  the  first  evening  at  the  mouth  of  Misery 
Stream,  and  a  storm  came  on.  The  rain  sifted 
through  the  canvas  in  a  fine  spray,  and  Mrs.  De 


A  Fatal  Success  121 

Peyster  sat  up  all  night  in  a  waterproof  cloak, 
holding  an  umbrella.  The  next  day  they  were 
back  at  the  hotel  in  time  for  lunch. 

"  It  was  horrid,"  she  told  her  most  intimate 
friend,  "  perfectly  horrid.  The  idea  of  sleeping 
in  a  shower-bath,  and  eating  your  breakfast 
from  a  tin  plate,  just  for  sake  of  catching  a 
few  silly  fish!  Why  not  send  your  guides  out 
to  get  them  for  you?  " 

But,  in  spite  of  this  profession  of  obstinate 
heresy,  Beekman  observed  with  secret  joy  that 
there  were  signs  before  the  end  of  the  season, 
that  Cornelia  was  drifting  a  little,  a  very  little 
but  still  perceptibly,  in  the  direction  of  a  change 
of  heart.  She  began  to  take  an  interest,  as  the 
big  trout  came  along  in  September,  in  the  re 
ports  of  the  catches  made  by  the  different 
anglers.  She  would  saunter  out  with  the  other 
people  to  the  corner  of  the  porch  to  see  the  fish 
weighed  and  spread  out  on  the  grass.  Several 
times  she  went  with  Beekman  in  the  canoe  to 
Hardscrabble  Point,  and  showed  distinct  evi 
dences  of  pleasure  when  he  caught  large  trout. 
The  last  day  of  the  season,  when  he  returned 
from  a  successful  expedition  to  Roach  River 
and  Lily  Bay,  she  inquired  with  some  particu- 


122  A  Fatal  Success 

larity  about  the  results  of  his  sport ;  and  in  the 
evening,  as  the  company  sat  before  the  great 
open  fire  in  the  hall  of  the  hotel,  she  was  heard 
to  use  this  information  with  considerable  skill 
in  putting  down  Mrs.  Minot  Peabody,  of  Bos 
ton,  who  was  recounting  the  details  of  her 
husband's  catch  at  Spencer  Pond.  Cornelia 
was  not  a  person  to  be  contented  with  the  back 
seat,  even  in  fish-stories. 

When  Beekman  observed  these  indications  he 
was  much  encouraged,  and  resolved  to  push  his 
educational  experiment  briskly  forward  to  his 
customary  goal  of  success. 

"  Some  things  can  be  done,  as  well  as  others," 
he  said  in  his  masterful  way,  as  three  of  us  were 
walking  home  together  after  the  autumnal  din 
ner  of  the  Petrine  Club,  which  he  always 
attended  as  a  graduate  member.  "  A  real  fisher 
man  never  gives  up.  I  told  you  I'd  make  an 
angler  out  of  my  wife;  and  so  I  will.  It  has 
been  rather  difficult.  She  is  '  dour '  in  rising. 
But  she's  beginning  to  take  notice  of  the  fly 
now.  Give  me  another  season,  and  I'll  have  her 
landed." 

Good  old  Beekman !    Little  did  he  think 


A  Fatal  Success  123 

But  I  must  not  interrupt  the  story  with  moral 
reflections. 

The  preparations  that  he  made  for  his  final 
effort  at  conversion  were  thorough  and  prudent. 
He  had  a  private  interview  with  Dewlap  in  re 
gard  to  the  construction  of  a  practical  fishing- 
costume  for  a  lady,  which  resulted  in  something 
more  reasonable  and  workmanlike  than  had  ever 
been  turned  out  by  that  famous  artist.  He 
ordered  from  Hook  &  Catchett  a  lady's  angling- 
outfit  of  the  most  enticing  description,— a  split- 
bamboo  rod,  light  as  a  girl's  wish,  and  strong 
as  a  matron's  will ;  an  oxidised  silver  reel,  with  a 
monogram  on  one  side,  and  a  sapphire  set  in  the 
handle  for  good  luck;  a  book  of  flies,  of  all  sizes 
and  colours,  with  the  correct  names  inscribed  in 
gilt  letters  on  each  page.  He  surrounded  his 
favourite  sport  with  an  aureole  of  elegance  and 
beauty.  And  then  he  took  Cornelia  in  Septem 
ber  to  the  Upper  Dam  at  Rangeley. 

She  went  reluctant.  She  arrived  disgusted. 

She  stayed  incredulous.  She  returned 

Wait  a  bit,  and  you  shall  hear  how  she  returned. 

The  Upper  Dam  at  Rangeley  is  the  place,  of 
all  others  in  the  world,  where  the  lunacy  of  ang 
ling  may  be  seen  in  its  incurable  stage.  There  is  a 


124  -A  Fatal  Success 


cosy  little  inn,  called  a  camp,  at  the  foot  of  a 
big  lake.  In  front  of  the  inn  is  a  huge  dam  of 
grey  stone,  over  which  the  river  plunges  into  a 
great  oval  pool,  where  the  trout  assemble  in  the 
early  fall  to  perpetuate  their  race.  From  the 
tenth  of  September  to  the  thirtieth,  there  is  not 
an  hour  of  the  day  or  night  when  there  are  no 
boats  floating  on  that  pool,  and  no  anglers  trail 
ing  the  fly  across  its  waters.  Before  the  late 
fishermen  are  ready  to  come  in  at  midnight,  the 
early  fishermen  may  be  seen  creeping  down  to 
the  shore  with  lanterns  in  order  to  begin  before 
cock-crow.  The  number  of  fish  taken  is  not 
large,  —  perhaps  five  or  six  for  the  whole  com 
pany  on  an  average  day,  —  but  the  size  is  some 
times  enormous,  —  nothing  under  three  pounds 
is  counted,  —  and  they  pervade  thought  and  con 
versation  at  the  Upper  Dam  to  the  exclusion  of 
every  other  subject.  There  is  no  driving,  no 
dancing,  no  golf,  no  tennis.  There  is  nothing 
to  do  but  fish  or  die. 

At  first  Cornelia  thought  she  would  choose 
the  latter  alternative.  But  a  remark  of  that 
skilful  and  morose  old  angler,  McTurk,  which 
she  overheard  on  the  verandah  after  supper, 
changed  her  mind. 


A  Fatal  Success  125 

"  Women  have  no  sporting  instinct,"  said  he. 
"  They  only  fish  because  they  see  men  doing  it. 
They  are  imitative  animals." 

That  same  night  she  told  Beekman,  in  the 
subdued  tone  which  the  architectural  construc 
tion  of  the  house  imposes  upon  all  confidential 
communications  in  the  bedrooms,  but  with  reso 
lution  in  every  accent,  that  she  proposed  to  go 
fishing  with  him  on  the  morrow. 

"  But  not  on  that  pool,  right  in  front  of  the 
house,  you  understand.  There  must  be  some 
other  place,  out  on  the  lake,  where  we  can  fish 
for  three  or  four  days,  until  I  get  the  trick  of 
this  wobbly  rod.  Then  I'll  show  that  old  bear, 
McTurk,  what  kind  of  an  animal  woman  is." 

Beekman  was  simply  delighted.  Five  days 
of  diligent  practice  at  the  mouth  of  Mill  Brook 
brought  his  pupil  to  the  point  where  he  pro 
nounced  her  safe. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said  patronisingly,  "  you 
haven't  learned  all  about  it  yet.  That  will  take 
years.  But  you  can  get  your  fly  out  thirty  feet, 
and  you  can  keep  the  tip  of  your  rod  up.  If  you 
do  that,  the  trout  will  hook  himself,  in  rapid 
water,  eight  times  out  of  ten.  For  playing  him, 
if  you  follow  my  directions,  you'll  be  all  right. 


126  A  Fatal  Success 

We  will  try  the  pool  to-night,  and  hope  for  a 
medium-sized  fish." 

Cornelia  said  nothing,  but  smiled  and  nodded. 
She  had  her  own  thoughts. 

At  about  nine  o'clock  Saturday  night,  they 
anchored  their  boat  on  the  edge  of  the  shoal 
where  the  big  eddy  swings  around,  put  out  the 
lantern  and  began  to  fish.  Beekman  sat  in  the 
bow  of  the  boat,  with  his  rod  over  the  left  side; 
Cornelia  in  the  stern,  with  her  rod  over  the  right 
side.  The  night  was  cloudy  and  very  black. 
Each  of  them  had  put  on  the  largest  possible 
fly,  one  a  "  Bee-Pond  "  and  the  other  a  "  Dra 
gon  " ;  but  even  these  were  invisible.  They 
measured  out  the  right  length  of  line,  and  let 
the  flies  drift  back  until  they  hung  over  the 
shoal,  in  the  curly  water  where  the  two  currents 
meet. 

There  were  three  other  boats  to  the  left  of 
them.  McTurk  was  their  only  neighbour  in 
the  darkness  on  the  right.  Once  they  heard  him 
swearing  softly  to  himself,  and  knew  that  he  had 
hooked  and  lost  a  fish. 

Away  down  at  the  tail  of  the  pool,  dimly  visi 
ble  through  the  gloom,  the  furtive  fisherman, 
Parsons,  had  anchored  his  boat.  No  noise 


A  Fatal  Success  127 

ever  came  from  that  craft.  If  he  wished  to 
change  his  position,  he  did  not  pull  up  the  an 
chor  and  let  it  down  again  with  a  bump.  He 
simply  lengthened  or  shortened  his  anchor  rope. 
There  was  no  click  of  the  reel  when  he  played  a 
fish.  He  drew  in  and  paid  out  the  line  through 
the  rings  by  hand,  without  a  sound.  What  he 
thought  when  a  fish  got  away,  no  one  knew,  for 
he  never  said  it.  He  concealed  his  angling  as  if 
it  had  been  a  conspiracy.  Twice  that  night 
they  heard  a  faint  splash  in  the  water  near 
his  boat,  and  twice  they  saw  him  put  his  arm 
over  the  side  in  the  darkness  and  bring  it  back 
again  very  quietly. 

"  That's  the  second  fish  for  Parsons,"  whis 
pered  Beekman,  "  what  a  secretive  old  Fortuna- 
tus  he  is!  He  knows  more  about  fishing  than 
any  man  on  the  pool,  and  talks  less." 

Cornelia  did  not  answer.  Her  thoughts  were 
all  on  the  tip  of  her  own  rod.  About  eleven 
o'clock  a  fine,  drizzling  rain  set  in.  The  fishing 
was  very  slack.  All  the  other  boats  gave  it  up 
in  despair ;  but  Cornelia  said  she  wanted  to  stay 
out  a  little  longer,  they  might  as  well  finish  up 
the  week. 

At  precisely  fifty  minutes  past  eleven,  Beek- 


128  A  Fatal  Success 

man  reeled  up  his  line,  and  remarked  with  firm 
ness  that  the  holy  Sabbath  day  was  almost  at 
hand  and  they  ought  to  go  in. 

"  Not  till  I've  landed  this  trout,"  said  Cor 
nelia. 

"  What  ?     A  trout !     Have  you  got  one  ?  " 

"  Certainly;  I've  had  him  on  for  at  least  fif 
teen  minutes.  I'm  playing  him  Mr.  Parsons' 
way.  You  might  as  well  light  the  lantern  and 
get  the  net  ready;  he's  coming  in  towards  the 
boat  now." 

Beekman  broke  three  matches  before  he  made 
the  lantern  burn;  and  when  he  held  it  up  over 
the  gunwale,  there  was  the  trout  sure  enough, 
gleaming  ghostly  pale  in  the  dark  water,  close 
to  the  boat,  and  quite  tired  out.  He  slipped  the 
net  over  the  fish  and  drew  it  in, — a  monster. 

"  I'll  carry  that  trout,  if  you  please,"  said 
Cornelia,  as  they  stepped  out  of  the  boat;  and 
she  "walked  into  the  camp,  on  the  last  stroke  of 
midnight,  with  the  fish  in  her  hand,  and  quietly 
asked  for  the  steelyard. 

Eight  pounds  and  fourteeen  ounces, — that 
war-  the  weight.  Everybody  was  amazed.  It  was 
the  "  best  fish  "of  the  year.  Cornelia  showed 
no  sign  of  exultation,  until  just  as  John  was 


A  Fatal  Success  129 


carrying  the  trout  to  the  ice-house.  Then  she 
flashed  out : — 

"  Quite  a  fair  imitation,  Mr.  McTurk — isn't 
it?" 

Now  McTurk's  best  record  for  the  last  fif 
teen  years  was  seven  pounds  and  twelve  ounces. 

So  far  as  McTurk  is  concerned,  this  is  the 
end  of  the  story.  But  not  for  the  De  Peysters. 
I  wish  it  were.  Beekman  went  to  sleep  that 
night  with  a  contented  spirit.  He  felt  that  his 
experiment  in  education  had  been  a  success.  He 
had  made  his  wife  an  angler. 

He  had  indeed,  and  to  an  extent  which  he  little 
suspected.  That  Upper  Dam  trout  was  to  her 
like  the  first  taste  of  blood  to  the  tiger.  It 
seemed  to  change,  at  once,  not  so  much  her 
character  as  the  direction  of  her  vital  energy. 
She  yielded  to  the  lunacy  of  angling,  not  by  slow 
degrees,  (as  first  a  transient  delusion,  then  a 
fixed  idea,  then  a  chronic  infirmity,  finally  a 
mild  insanity,)  but  by  a  sudden  plunge  into  the 
most  violent  mania.  So  far  from  being  ready 
to  die  at  Upper  Dam,  her  desire  now  was  to  live 
there — and  to  live  solely  for  the  sake  of  fishing 
— as  long  as  the  season  was  open. 

There  were  two  hundred  and  forty  hours  left 
5 


130  A  Fatal  Success 

to  midnight  on  the  thirtieth  of  September.      At 
least  two  hundred  of  these  she  spent  on  the  pool ; 
and  when  Beekman  was  too  exhausted  to  man 
age  the  boat  and  the  net  and  the  lantern  for  her, 
she  engaged  a  trustworthy  guide  to  take  Beek- 
man's  place  while  he  slept.     At  the  end  of  the 
last  day  her  score  was  twenty-three,  with  an 
average  of  five  pounds  and  a  quarter.       His 
score  was  nine,  with  an  average  of  four  pounds. 
He  had  succeeded  far  beyond  his  wildest  hopes. 
The  next  year  his  success  became  even  more 
astonishing.     They  went  to  the  Titan  Club  in 
Canada.  The  ugliest  and  most  inaccessible  sheet 
of  water  in  that  territory  is  Lake  Pharaoh.   But 
it  is  famous  for  the  extraordinary  fishing  at  a 
certain  spot  near  the  outlet,  where  there  is  just 
room  enough  for  one  canoe.     They  camped  on 
Lake  Pharaoh  for  six  weeks,  by  Mrs.  De  Pey- 
ster's  command;  and  her  canoe  was  always  the 
first  to  reach  the  fishing-ground  in  the  morning, 
and  the  last  to  leave  it  in  the  evening. 

Someone  asked  him,  when  he  returned  to  the 
city,  whether  he  had  good  luck. 

"  Quite  fair,"  he  tossed  off  in  a  careless  way; 
"  we  took  over  three  hundred  pounds." 


A  Fatal  Success  131 

"  To  your  own  rod  ?  "  asked  the  inquirer,  in 
admiration. 

"  No-o-o,"  said  Beekman,  "  there  were  two 
of  us." 

There  were  two  of  them,  also,  the  following 
year,  when  they  joined  the  Natasheebo  Salmon 
Club  and  fished  that  celebrated  river  in  Labra 
dor.  The  custom  of  drawing  lots  every  night 
for  the  water  that  each  member  was  to  angle 
over  the  next  day,  seemed  to  be  especially  de 
signed  to  fit  the  situation.  Mrs.  De  Peyster 
could  fish  her  own  pool  and  her  husband's  too. 
The  result  of  that  year's  fishing  was  something 
phenomenal.  She  had  a  score  that  made  a 
paragraph  in  the  newspapers  and  called  out  edi 
torial  comment.  One  editor  was  so  inadequate 
to  the  situation  as  to  entitle  the  article  in  which 
he  described  her  triumph  "  The  Equivalence  of 
Woman."  It  was  well-meant,  but  she  was  not 
at  all  pleased  with  it. 

She  was  now  not  merely  an  angler,  but  a 
"  record "  angler  of  the  most  virulent  type. 
Wherever  they  went,  she  wanted,  and  she  got, 
the  pick  of  the  water.  She  seemed  to  be  equally 
at  home  on  all  kinds  of  streams,  large  and  small. 
She  would  pursue  the  little  mountain-brook 


132  A  Fatal  Success 

trout  in  the  early  spring,  and  the  Labrador  sal 
mon  in  July,  and  the  huge  speckled  trout  of  the 
northern  lakes  in  September,  with  the  same 
avidity  and  resolution.  All  that  she  cared  for  was 
to  get  the  best  and  the  most  of  the  fishing  at 
each  place  where  she  angled.  This  she  always 
did. 

And  Beekman, — well,  for  him  there  were  no 
more  long  separations  from  the  partner  of  his 
life  while  he  went  off  to  fish  some  favourite 
stream.  There  were  no  more  home-comings 
after  a  good  day's  sport  to  find  her  clad  in  cool 
and  dainty  raiment  on  the  verandah,  ready  to 
welcome  him  with  friendly  badinage.  There 
was  not  even  any  casting  of  the  fly  around 
Hardscrabble  Point  while  she  sat  in  the  canoe 
reading  a  novel,  looking  up  with  mild  and  plea 
sant  interest  when  he  caught  a  larger  fish  than 
usual,  as  an  older  and  wiser  person  looks  at  a 
child  playing  some  innocent  game.  Those  days 
of  a  divided  interest  between  man  and  wife  were 
gone.  She  was  now  fully  converted,  and  more. 
Beekman  and  Cornelia  were  one;  and  she  was 
the  one. 

The  last  time  I  saw  the  De  Peysters  he  was 
following  her  along  the  Beaverkill,  carrying  a 


A  Fatal  Success  133 

landing-net  and  a  basket,  but  no  rod.  She 
paused  for  a  moment  to  exchange  greetings,  and 
then  strode  on  down  the  stream.  He  lingered 
for  a  few  minutes  longer  to  light  a  pipe. 

"  Well,  old  man,"  I  said,  "  you  certainly  have 
succeeded  in  making  an  angler  of  Mrs.  De  Pey- 
ster." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  he  answered, — "  haven't  I  ?  " 
Then  he  continued,  after  a  few  thoughtful  puffs 
of  smoke,  "  Do  you  know,  I'm  not  quite  so  sure 
as  I  used  to  be  that  fishing  is  the  best  of  all 
sports?  I  sometimes  think  of  giving  it  up  and 
going  in  for  croquet." 


Fishing  in  Books 


"  SIMPSON. — Have  you  ever  seen  any  American  books 
on  angling,  Fisher? 

"  FISHER. — No.  I  do  not  think  there  are  any  published. 
Brother  Jonathan  is  not  yet  sufficiently  civilised  to  produce 
anything  original  on  the  gentle  art.  There  is  good  trout- 
fishing  in  America,  and  the  streams,  which  are  all  free, 
are  much  less  fished  than  in  our  Island,  'from  the  small 
number  of  gentlemen,'  as  an  American  writer  says,  'who 
are  at  leisure  to  give  their  time  to  it.' " — WILLIAM  AN 
DREW  CHATTO:  The  Angler's  Souvenir  (London,  1835). 

""  I  ^HAT  wise  man  and  accomplished  scholar, 
J-  Sir  Henry  Wotton,  the  friend  of  Izaak 
Walton  and  ambassador  of  King  James  I.  to 
the  republic  of  Venice,  was  accustomed  to  say 
that  "he  would  rather  live  five  May  months 
than  forty  Decembers."  The  reason  for  this 
preference  was  no  secret  to  those  who  knew  him. 
It  had  nothing  to  do  with  British  or  Venetian 
politics.  It  was  simply  because  December,  with 
all  its  domestic  joys,  is  practically  a  dead  month 
in  the  angler's  calendar. 
134 


Fishing  in  Books  135 

His  occupation  is  gone.  The  better  sort  of 
fish  are  out  of  season.  The  trout  are  lean  and 
haggard :  it  is  no  trick  to  catch  them  and  no  treat 
to  eat  them.  The  salmon,  all  except  the  silly 
kelts,  have  run  out  to  sea,  and  the  place  of  their 
habitation  no  man  knoweth.  There  is  nothing 
for  the  angler  to  do  but  wait  for  the  return  of 
spring,  and  meanwhile  encourage  and  sustain  his 
patience  with  such  small  consolations  in  kind 
as  a  friendly  Providence  may  put  within  his 
reach. 

SOME  solace  may  be  found,  on  a  day  of  crisp, 
wintry  weather,  in  the  childish  diversion  of 
catching  pickerel  through  the  ice.  This  method 
of  taking  fish  is  practised  on  a  large  scale  and 
with  elaborate  machinery  by  men  who  supply 
the  market.  I  speak  not  of  their  commercial 
enterprise  and  its  gross  equipage,  but  of  ice- 
fishing  in  its  more  sportive  and  desultory  form, 
as  it  is  pursued  by  country  boys  and  the  incor 
rigible  village  idler. 

You  choose  for  this  pastime  a  pond  where 
the  ice  is  not  too  thick,  lest  the  labour  of  cutting 
through  should  be  discouraging;  nor  too  thin, 
lest  the  chance  of  breaking  in  should  be  em- 


136  Fishing  in  Books 

barrassing.  You  then  chop  out,  with  almost 
any  kind  of  a  hatchet  or  pick,  a  number  of  holes 
in  the  ice,  making  each  one  six  or  eight  inches 
in  diameter,  and  placing  them  about  five  or  six 
feet  apart.  If  you  happen  to  know  the  course 
of  a  current  flowing  through  the  pond,  or  the 
location  of  a  shoal  frequented  by  minnows,  you 
will  do  well  to  keep  near  it.  Over  each  hole 
you  set  a  small  contrivance  called  a  "  tilt-up."  It 
consists  of  two  sticks  fastened  in  the  middle,  at 
right  angles  to  each  other.  The  stronger  of  the 
two  is  laid  across  the  opening  in  the  ice.  The 
other  is  thus  balanced  above  the  aperture,  with 
a  baited  hook  and  line  attached  to  one  end,  while 
the  other  end  is  adorned  with  a  little  flag.  For 
choice,  I  would  have  the  flags  red.  They  look 
gayer,  and  I  imagine  they  are  more  lucky. 

When  you  have  thus  baited  and  set  your  tilt- 
ups, — twenty  or  thirty  of  them, — you  may  put 
on  your  skates  and  amuse  yourself  by  gliding 
to  and  fro  on  the  smooth  surface  of  the  ice, 
cutting  figures  of  eight  and  grapevines  and  dia 
mond  twists,  while  you  wait  for  the  pickerel  to 
begin  their  part  of  the  performance.  They  will 
let  you  know  when  they  are  ready. 

A  fish,  swimming  around  in  the  dim  depths 


Fishing  in  Books  137 

under  the  ice,  sees  one  of  your  baits,  fancies  it, 
and  takes  it  in.  The  moment  he  tries  to  run 
away  with  it  he  tilts  the  little  red  flag  into  the 
air  and  waves  it  backward  and  forward.  "  Be 
quick!"  he  signals  all  unconsciously;  "here  I 
am !  come  and  pull  me  up !  " 

When  two  or  three  flags  are  fluttering  at  the 
same  moment,  far  apart  on  the  pond,  you  must 
skate  with  speed  and  haul  in  your  lines 
promptly. 

How  hard  it  is,  sometimes,  to  decide  which 
one  you  will  take  first !  That  flag  in  the  middle 
of  the  pond  has  been  waving  for  at  least  a 
minute ;  but  the  other,  in  the  corner  of  the  bay, 
is  tilting  up  and  down  more  violently:  it  must 
be  a  larger  fish.  Great  Dagon !  there's  another 
red  signal  flying,  away  over  by  the  point !  You 
hesitate,  you  make  a  few  strokes  in  one  direc 
tion,  then  you  whirl  around  and  dart  the  other 
way.  Meantime  one  of  the  tilt-ups,  constructed 
with  too  short  a  cross-stick,  has  been  pulled  to 
one  side,  and  disappears  in  the  hole.  One 
pickerel  in  the  pond  carries  a  flag.  Another 
tilt-up  ceases  to  move  and  falls  flat  upon  the 
ice.  The  bait  has  been  stolen.  You  dash  des 
perately  toward  the  third  flag  and  pull  in  the 
5* 


138  Fishing  in  Books 

only  fish  that  is  left, — probably  the  smallest  of 
them  all! 

A  surplus  of  opportunities  does  not  ensure 
the  best  luck. 

A  room  with  seven  doors — like  the  famous 
apartment  in  Washington's  headquarters  at 
Newburgh — is  an  invitation  to  bewilderment. 
I  would  rather  see  one  fair  opening  in  life  than 
be  confused  by  three  dazzling  chances. 

There  was  a  good  story  about  fishing  through 
the  ice  which  formed  part  of  the  stock-in-con- 
versation  of  that  ingenious  woodsman,  Martin 
Moody,  Esquire,  of  Big  Tupper  Lake.  "  'Twas 
a  blame  cold  day,"  he  said,  "  and  the  lines  friz 
up  stiffer  'n  a  fence-wire,  jus'  as  fast  as  I  pulled 
'em  in,  and  my  fingers  got  so  dum'  frosted  I 
couldn't  bait  the  hooks.  But  the  fish  was  thicker 
and  hungrier  'n  flies  in  June.  So  I  jus'  took  a 
piece  of  bait  and  held  it  over  one  o'  the  holes. 
Every  time  a  fish  jumped  up  to  git  it,  I'd  kick 
him  out  on  the  ice.  I  tell  ye,  sir,  I  kicked  out 
more  'n  four  hundred  pounds  of  pick-rel  that 
morning.  Yaas,  'twas  a  big  lot,  I  'low,  but  then 
'twas  a  cold  day!!  I  jus'  stacked  'em  up  solid, 
like  cordwood." 

Let  us  now  leave  this  frigid  subject!    Iced 


Fishing  in  Books  139 

fishing  is  but  a  chilling  and  unsatisfactory  imi 
tation  of  real  sport.  The  angler  will  soon  turn 
from  it  with  satiety,  and  seek  a  better  consola 
tion  for  the  winter  of  his  discontent  in  the  en 
tertainment  of  fishing  in  books. 

ANGLING  is  the  only  sport  that  boasts  the 
honour  of  having  given  a  classic  to  literature. 

Izaak  Walton's  success  with  The  Compleat 
Angler  was  a  fine  illustration  of  fisherman's 
luck.  He  set  out,  with  some  aid  from  an  adept 
in  fly-fishing  and  cookery,  named  Thomas  Bar 
ker,  to  produce  a  little  "  discourse  of  fish  and 
fishing  "  which  should  serve  as  a  useful  manual 
for  quiet  persons  inclined  to  follow  the  contem 
plative  man's  recreation.  He  came  home  with 
a  book  which  has  made  his  name  beloved  by  ten 
generations  of  gentle  readers,  and  given  him  a 
secure  place  in  the  Pantheon  of  letters — not  a 
haughty  eminence,  but  a  modest  niche,  all  his 
own,  and  ever  adorned  with  grateful  offerings 
of  fresh  flowers. 

This  was  great  luck.  But  it  was  well-deserved, 
and  therefore  it  has  not  been  grudged  or  envied. 

Walton  was  a  man  so  peaceful  and  contented, 
so  friendly  in  his  disposition,  and  so  innocent  in 


140  Fishing  in  Books 

all  his  goings,  that  only  three  other  writers,  so 
far  as  I  know,  have  ever  spoken  ill  of  him. 

One  was  that  sour-complexioned  Cromwellian 
trooper,  Richard  Franck,  who  wrote  in  1658 
an  envious  book  entitled  Northern  Memoirs,  cal 
culated  for  the  Meridian  of  Scotland,  &c.,  to 
which  is  added  The  Contemplative  and  Practical 
Angler.  In  this  book  the  furious  Franck  first 
pays  Walton  the  flattery  of  imitation,  and  then 
further  adorns  him  with  abuse,  calling  The 
Compleat  Angler  "  an  indigested  octavo,  stuffed 
with  morals  from  Dubravius  and  others,"  and 
more  than  hinting  that  the  father  of  anglers 
knew  little  or  nothing  of  "  his  uncultivated  art.'' 
Walton  was  a  Churchman  and  a  Loyalist,  you 
see,  while  Franck  was  a  Commonwealth  man 
and  an  Independent. 

The  second  detractor  of  Walton  was  Lord 
Byron,  who  wrote 

"  The  quaint,  old,  cruel  coxcomb  in  his  gullet 
Should  have  a  hook,  and  a  small  trout  to 
pull  it." 

But  Byron  is  certainly  a  poor  authority  on  the 


Fishing  in  Books  141 

quality  of  mercy.  His  contempt  need  not  cause 
an  honest  man  overwhelming  distress.  I  should 
call  it  a  complimentary  dislike. 

The  third  author  who  expressed  unpleasant 
sentiments  in  regard  to  Walton  was  Leigh 
Hunt.  Here,  again,  I  fancy  that  partisan  pre 
judice  had  something  to  do  with  the  dislike. 
Hunt  was  a  radical  in  politics  and  religion. 
Moreover  there  was  a  feline  strain  in  his  charac 
ter,  which  made  it  necessary  for  him  to  scratch 
somebody  now  and  then,  as  a  relief  to  his 
feelings. 

Walton  was  a  great  quoter.  His  book  is  not 
"  stuffed,"  as  Franck  jealously  alleged,  but  it  is 
certainly  well  sauced  with  piquant  references  to 
other  writers,  as  early  as  the  author  of  the  Book 
of  Job,  and  as  late  as  John  Denny s,  who  be 
trayed  to  the  world  The  Secrets  of  Angling  in 
1613.  Walton  further  seasoned  his  book  with 
fragments  of  information  about  fish  and  fishing, 
more  or  less  apocryphal,  gathered  from  yElian, 
Pliny,  Plutarch,  Sir  Francis  Bacon,  Dubravius, 
Gesner,  Rondeletius,  the  learned  Aldrovandus, 
the  Venerable  Bede,  the  divine  Du  Bartas,  and 
many  others.  He  borrowed  freely  for  the 


Fishing  in  Books 


adornment  of  his  discourse,  and  did  not  scorn 
to  make  use  of  what  may  be  called  live  quotes 
tions,  —  that  is  to  say,  the  unpublished  remarks 
of  his  near  contemporaries,  caught  in  friendly 
conversation,  or  handed  down  by  oral  tradition. 

But  these  various  seasonings  did  not  disguise, 
they  only  enhanced,  the  delicate  flavour  of  the 
dish  which  he  served  up  to  his  readers.  This 
was  all  of  his  own  taking,  and  of  a  sweetness 
quite  incomparable. 

I  like  a  writer  who  is  original  enough  to 
water  his  garden  with  quotations,  without  fear 
of  being  drowned  out.  Such  men  are  Charles 
Lamb  and  James  Russell  Lowell  and  John  Bur 
roughs. 

Walton's  book  is  as  fresh  as  a  handful  of  wild 
violets  and  sweet  lavender.  It  breathes  the 
odours  of  the  green  fields  and  the  woods.  It 
tastes  of  simple,  homely,  appetising  things  like 
the  "  syllabub  of  new  verjuice  in  a  new-made 
haycock  "  which  the  milkwoman  promised  to 
give  Piscator  the  next  time  he  came  that  way. 
Its  music  plays  the  tune  of  A  Contented  Heart 
over  and  over  again  without  dullness,  and 
charms  us  into  harmony  with 


Fishing  in  Books  143 

"  A  noise  like  the  sound  of  a  hidden  brook 
In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 
That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 
Singeth  a  quiet  tune." 

Walton  has  been  quoted  even  more  than  any 
of  the  writers  whom  he  quotes.  It  would  be 
difficult,  even  if  it  were  not  ungrateful,  to  write 
about  angling  without  referring  to  him.  Some 
pretty  saying,  some  wise  reflection  from  his 
pages,  suggests  itself  at  almost  every  turn  of 
the  subject. 

And  yet  his  book,  though  it  be  the  best,  is 
not  the  only  readable  one  that  his  favourite 
recreation  has  begotten.  The  literature  of  ang 
ling  is  extensive,  as  anyone  may  see  who  will 
look  at  the  list  of  the  collection  presented  by 
Mr.  John  Bartlett  to  Harvard  University,  or 
study  the  catalogue  of  the  piscatorial  library  of 
Mr.  Dean  Sage,  of  Albany,  who  himself  has 
contributed  an  admirable  book  on  The  Risti- 
gouche. 

Nor  is  this  literature  altogether  composed  of 
dry  and  technical  treatises,  interesting  only  to 
the  confirmed  anglimaniac,  or  to  the  young 
novice  ardent  in  pursuit  of  practical  informa- 


144  Fishing  in  Books 

tion.       There  is  a  good  deal  of  juicy  reading 
in  it. 

BOOKS  about  angling  should  be  divided  (ac 
cording  to  De  Quincey's  method)  into  two 
classes, — the  literature  of  knowledge,  and  the 
literature  of  power. 

The  first  class  contains  the  handbooks  on 
rods  and  tackle,  the  directions  how  to  angle  for 
different  kinds  of  fish,  and  the  guides  to  various 
fishing-resorts.  The  weakness  of  these  books 
is  that  they  soon  fall  out  of  date,  as  the  manu 
facture  of  tackle  is  improved,  the  art  of  angling 
refined,  and  the  fish  in  once-famous  waters  are 
educated  or  exterminated. 

Alas,  how  transient  is  the  fashion  of  this 
world,  even  in  angling !  The  old  manuals  with 
their  precise  instruction  for  trimming  and  paint 
ing  trout-rods  eighteen  feet  long,  and  their  pain 
ful  description  of  "  oyntments "  made  of 
nettlejuice,  fish-hawk  oil,  camphor,  cat's  fat,  or 
assafoedita  (supposed  to  allure  the  fish),  are  alto 
gether  behind  the  age.  Many  of  the  flies  de 
scribed  by  Charles  Cotton  and  Thomas  Barker 
seem  to  have  gone  out  of  style  among  the  trout. 
Perhaps  familiarity  has  bred  contempt.  Genera.- 


Fishing  in  Books  145 

tion  after  generation  of  fish  have  seen  these 
same  old  feathered  confections  floating  on  the 
water,  and  learned  by  sharp  experience  that  they 
do  not  taste  good.  The  blase  trout  demand 
something  new,  something  modern.  It  is  for 
this  reason,  I  suppose,  that  an  altogether  original 
fly,  unheard  of,  startling,  will  often  do  great 
execution  in  an  over-fished  pool. 

Certain  it  is  that  the  art  of  angling,  in  settled 
regions,  is  growing  more  dainty  and  difficult. 
You  must  cast  a  longer,  lighter  line ;  you  must 
use  finer  leaders;  you  must  have  your  flies 
dressed  on  smaller  hooks. 

And  another  thing  is  certain :  in  many  places 
(described  in  the  ancient  volumes)  where  fish 
were  once  abundant,  they  are  now  like  the  ship 
wrecked  sailors  in  Virgil  his  ^Eneid, — 

"  rari  nantes  in  gurgite  vasto." 

The  floods  themselves  are  also  disappearing. 
Mr.  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  was  telling  me, 
the  other  day,  of  the  trout-brook  that  used  to 
run  through  the  Connecticut  village  when  he 
nourished  a  poet's  youth.  He  went  back  to 
visit  the  stream  a  few  years  since,  and  it  was 
gone,  literally  vanished  from  the  face  of  earth, 


146  Fishing  in  Books 

stolen  to  make  a  water-supply  for  the  town,  and 
used  for  such  base  purposes  as  the  washing  of 
clothes  and  the  sprinkling  of  streets. 

I  remember  an  expedition  with  my  father, 
some  twenty  years  ago,  to  Nova  Scotia,  whither 
we  set  out  to  realise  the  hopes  kindled  by  an 
Angler's  Guide  written  in  the  early  sixties.  It 
was  like  looking  for  tall  clocks  in  the  farm 
houses  around  Boston.  The  harvest  had  been 
well  gleaned  before  our  arrival,  and  in  the  very 
place  where  our  visionary  author  located  his 
most  famous  catch  we  found  a  summer  hotel 
and  a  sawmill. 

'Tis  strange  and  sad,  how  many  regions  there 
are  where  "  the  fishing  was  wonderful  forty 
years  ago  " ! 

THE  second  class  of  angling  books — the  liter 
ature  of  power — includes  all  (even  those  written 
with  some  purpose  of  instruction)  in  which  the 
gentle  fascinations  of  the  sport,  the  attractions 
of  living  out-of-doors,  the  beauties  of  stream 
and  woodland,  the  recollections  of  happy  adven 
ture,  and  the  cheerful  thoughts  that  make  the 
best  of  a  day's  luck,  come  clearly  before  the 
author's  mind  and  find  some  fit  expression  in 


Fishing  in  Books  147 

his  words.  Of  such  books,  thank  Heaven, 
there  is  a-plenty  to  bring  a  Maytide  charm  and 
cheer  into  the  fisherman's  dull  December.  I 
will  name,  by  way  of  random  tribute  from  a 
grateful  but  unmethodical  memory,  a  feVv  of 
these  consolatory  volumes. 

First  of  all  comes  a  family  of  books  that  were 
born  in  Scotland  and  smell  of  the  heather. 

Whatever  a  Scotchman's  conscience  permits 
him  to  do,  is  likely  to  be  done  with  vigour  and 
a  fiery  mind.  In  trade  and  in  theology,  in 
fishing  and  in  fighting,  he  is  all  there  and  tho 
roughly  kindled. 

There  is  an  old-fashioned  book  called  The 
Moor  and  the  Loch,  by  John  Colquhoun,  which 
is  full  of  contagious  enthusiasm.  Thomas  Tod 
Stoddart  was  a  most  impassioned  angler, 
(though  over-given  to  strong  language,)  and  in 
his  Angling  Reminiscences  he  has  touched  the 
subject  with  a  happy  hand, — happiest  when  he 
breaks  into  poetry  and  tosses  out  a  song  for  the 
fisherman.  Professor  John  Wilson,  of  the  Uni 
versity  of  Edinburgh,  held  the  chair  of  Moral 
Philosophy  in  that  institution,  but  his  true  fame 
rests  on  his  well-earned  titles  of  A.  M.  and 
F.  R.  S.,-— Master  of  Angling,  and  Fisherman 


148  Fishing  in  Books 

Royal  of  Scotland.  His  Recreations  of  Christ 
opher  North,  albeit  their  humour  is  sometimes 
too  boisterously  hammered  in,  are  genial  and 
generous  essays,  overflowing  with  passages  of 
good-fellowship  and  pedestrian  fancy.  I  would 
recommend  any  person  in  a  dry  and  melancholy 
state  of  mind  to  read  his  paper  on  "  Streams," 
in  the  first  volume  of  Essays  Critical  and  Ima 
ginative.  But  it  must  belaid,  by  way  of  warn 
ing  to  those  with  whom  dryness  is  a  matter  of 
principle,  that  all  Scotch  fishing-books  are  likely 
to  be  sprinkled  with  Highland  Dew. 

Among  English  anglers,  Sir  Humphry  Davy 
is  one  of  whom  Christopher  North  speaks  rather 
slightingly.  Nevertheless  his  Salmonia  is  well 
worth  reading,  not  only  because  it  was  written 
by  a  learned  man,  but  because  it  exhales  the 
spirit  of  cheerful  piety  and  vital  wisdom. 
Charles  Kingsley  was  another  great  man  who 
wrote  well  about  angling.  His  Chalk-Stream 
Studies  are  clear  and  sparkling.  They  cleanse 
the  mind  and  refresh  the  heart  and  put  us  more 
in  love  with  living.  Of  quite  a  different  style 
are  the  Maxims  and  Hints  for  an  Angler,  and 
Miseries  of  Fishing,  which  were  written  by 
Richard  Penn,  a  grandson  of  the  founder  of 


Fishing  in  Books  149 

Pennsylvania.  This  is  a  curious  and  rare  little 
volume,  professing  to  be  a  compilation  from 
the  "  Common  Place  Book  of  the  Houghton 
Fishing  Club,"  and  dealing  with  the  subject 
from  a  Pickwickian  point  of  view.  I  suppose 
that  William  Penn  would  have  thought  his 
grandson  a  frivolous  writer. 

But  he  could  not  have  entertained  such  an 
opinion  of  the  Honourable  Robert  Boyle,  of 
whose  Occasional  Reflections  no  less  than  twelve 
discourses  treat  "  of  Angling  Improved  to 
Spiritual  Uses."  The  titles  of  some  of  these 
discourses  are  quaint  enough  to  quote.  "  Upon 
the  being  called  upon  to  rise  early  on  a  very 
fair  morning."  "  Upon  the  mounting,  singing, 
and  lighting  of  larks."  "  Upon  fishing  with  a 
counterfeit  fly."  "  Upon  a  danger  arising  from 
an  unseasonable  contest  with  the  steersman." 
"  Upon  one's  drinking  water  out  of  the  brim  of 
his  hat."  With  such  good  texts  it  is  easy  to 
endure,  and  easier  still  to  spare,  the  sermons. 

Englishmen  carry  their  love  of  travel  into 
their  anglimania,  and  many  of  their  books  de 
scribe  fishing  adventures  in  foreign  parts.  Ram 
bles  with  a  Fishing-Rod,  by  E.  S.  Roscoe, 
tells  of  happy  days  in  the  Salzkammergut  and 


150  Fishing  in  Books 

the  Bavarian  Highlands  and  Normandy.  Fish- 
Tails  and  a  Few  Others,  by  Bradnock  Hall, 
contains  some  delightful  chapters  on  Norway. 
The  Rod  in  India,  by  H.  S.  Thomas,  narrates 
wonderful  adventures  with  the  Mahseer  and  the 
Rohu  and  other  pagan  fish. 

But,  after  all,  I  like  the  English  angler  best 
when  he  travels  at  home,  and  writes  of  dry-fly 
fishing  in  the  Itchen  or  the  Test,  or  of  wet-fly 
fishing  in  Northumberland  or  Sutherlandshire. 
There  is  a  fascinating  booklet  that  appeared 
quietly,  some  years  ago,  called  An  Amateur 
Angler's  Days  in  Dove  Dale.  It  runs  as  easily 
and  merrily  and  kindly  as  a  little  river,  full  of 
peace  and  pure  enjoyment.  Other  books  of  the 
same  quality  have  since  been  written  by  the 
same  pen, — Days  in  Clover,  Fresh  Woods,  By 
Meadow  and  Stream.  It  is  no  secret,  I  believe, 
that  the  author  is  Mr.  Edward  Marston,  the 
senior  member  of  a  London  publishing-house. 
But  he  still  clings  to  his  retiring  pen-name  of 
"  The  Amateur  Angler,"  and  represents  him 
self,  by  a  graceful  fiction,  as  all  unskilled  in  the 
art.  An  instance  of  similar  modesty  is  found 
in  Mr.  Andrew  Lang,  who  entitles  the  first  chap 
ter  of  his  delightful  Angling  Sketches  (without 


Fishing  in  Books  151 

which  no  fisherman's  library  is  complete), 
"  Confessions  of  a  Duffer."  This  an  engaging 
liberty  which  no  one  else  would  dare  to  take. 

The  best  English  fish-story  pure  and  simple, 
that  I  know,  is  "  Crocker's  Hole,"  by  R.  D. 
Blackmore,  the  creator  of  Lorna  Doone. 

Let  us  turn  now  to  American  books  about 
angling.  Of  these  the  merciful  dispensations 
of  Providence  have  brought  forth  no  small  store 
since  Mr.  William  Andrew  Chatto  made  the  ill- 
natured  remark  which  is  pilloried  at  the  head 
of  this  chapter.  By  the  way,  it  seems  that  Mr. 
Chatto  had  never  heard  of  "  The  Schuylkill 
Fishing  Company,"  which  was  founded  on  that 
romantic  stream  near  Philadelphia  in  1732,  nor 
seen  the  Authentic  Historical  Memoir  of  that 
celebrated  and  amusing  society. 

I  am  sorry  for  the  man  who  cannot  find  plea 
sure  in  reading  the  appendix  of  The  American 
Angler's  Book,  by  Thaddeus  Norris ;  or  the  dis 
cursive  pages  of  Frank  Forester's  Fish  and 
Fishing;  or  the  introduction  and  notes  of  that 
unexcelled  edition  of  Walton  which  was  made 
by  the  Reverend  Doctor  George  W.  Bethune ;  or 
Superior  Fishing  and  Game  Fish  of  the  North, 
by  Mr.  Robert  B.  Roosevelt;  or  Henshall's  Book 


152  Fishing  in  Books 

of  the  Black  Bass ;  or  the  admirable  digressions 
of  Mr.  Henry  P.  Wells,  in  his  Fly-Rods  and 
Fly-Tackle,  and  The  American  Salmon  Angler. 
Dr.  William  C.  Prime  has  never  put  his  pro 
found  knowledge  of  the  art  of  angling  into  a 
manual  of  technical  instruction ;  but  he  has  writ 
ten  of  the  delights  of  the  sport  in  Owl  Creek 
Letters,  and  in  /  Go  A-Fishing,  and  in  some  of 
the  chapters  of  Along  New  England  Roads  and 
Among  New  England  Hills,  with  a  persuasive 
skill  that  has  created  many  new  anglers,  and 
made  many  old  ones  grateful.  It  is  a  fitting 
coincidence  of  heredity  that  his  niece,  Mrs. 
Annie  Trumbull  Slosson,  is  the  author  of  the 
most  tender  and  pathetic  of  all  angling  stories, 
Fishin'  Jimmy. 

BUT  it  is  not  only  in  books  written  altogether 
from  his  peculiar  point  of  view  and  to  humour 
his  harmless  insanity,  that  the  angler  may  find 
pleasant  reading  about  his  favourite  pastime. 
There  are  excellent  bits  of  fishing  scattered  all 
through  the  field  of  good  literature.  It  seems  as 
if  almost  all  the  men  who  could  write  well  had 
a  friendly  feeling  for  the  contemplative  sport. 

Plutarch,  in  The  Lives  of  the  Noble  Grecians 


Fishing  in  Books  153 

and  Romans,  tells  a  capital  fish-story  of  the  man 
ner  in  which  the  Egyptian  Cleopatra  fooled  that 
far-famed  Roman  wight,  Marc  Antony,  when 
they  were  angling  together  on  the  Nile.  As  I 
recall  it,  from  a  perusal  in  early  boyhood,  An 
tony  was  having  very  bad  luck  indeed;  in  fact 
he  had  taken  nothing,  and  was  sadly  put  out 
about  it.  Cleopatra,  thinking  to  get  a  rise  out  of 
him,  secretly  told  one  of  her  attendants  to  dive 
over  the  opposite  side  of  the  barge  and  fasten 
a  salt  fish  to  the  Roman  general's  hook.  The 
attendant  was  much  pleased  with  this  commis 
sion,  and,  having  executed  it,  proceeded  to  add 
a  fine  stroke  of  his  own ;  for  when  he  had  made 
the  fish  fast  on  the  hook,  he  gave  a  great  pull  to 
the  line  and  held  on  tightly.  Antony  was  much 
excited  and  began  to  haul  violently  at  his  tackle. 

"By  Jupiter!"  he  exclaimed,  "it  was  long 
in  coming,  but  I  have  a  colossal  bite  now." 

"  Have  a  care,"  said  Cleopatra,  laughing  be 
hind  her  sunshade,  "  or  he  will  drag  you  into  the 
water.  You  must  give  him  line  when  he  pulls 
hard." 

"  Not  a  denarius  will  I  give ! "  rudely 
responded  Antony.  "  I  mean  to  have  this  hali 
but  or  Hades!" 


154  Fishing  in  Books 

At  this  moment  the  man  under  the  boat,  being 
out  of  breath,  let  the  line  go,  and  Antony,  falling 
backward,  drew  up  the  salted  herring. 

"  Take  that  fish  off  the  hook,  Palinurus,"  he 
proudly  said.  "  It  is  not  as  large  as  I  thought, 
but  it  looks  like  the  oldest  one  that  has  been 
caught  to-day." 

Such,  in  effect,  is  the  tale  narrated  by  the  vera 
cious  Plutarch.  And  if  any  careful  critic  wishes 
to  verify  my  quotation  from  memory,  he  may 
compare  it  with  the  proper  page  of  Langhorne's 
translation;  I  think  it  is  in  the  second  volume, 
near  the  end. 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  who  once  described  himself 
as 

"  No  fisher, 
But  a  well-wisher 
To  the  game" 

has  an  amusing  passage  of  angling  in  the  third 
chapter  of  Redgauntlet.  Darsie  Latimer  is  re 
lating  his  adventures  in  Dumfriesshire.  "  By 
the  way,"  says  he,  "  old  Cotton's  instructions, 
by  which  I  hoped  to  qualify  myself  for  the 
gentle  society  of  anglers,  are  not  worth  a  far 
thing  for  this  meridian,  I  learned  this  by  mere 


Fishing  in  Books  155 

accident,  after  I  had  waited  four  mortal  hours. 
I  shall  never  forget  an  impudent  urchin,  a  cow 
herd,  about  twelve  years  old,  without  either 
brogue  or  bonnet,  barelegged,  with  a  very  in 
different  pair  of  breeches, — how  the  villain 
grinned  in  scorn  at  my  landing-net,  my  plummet, 
and  the  gorgeous  jury  of  flies  which  I  had  as 
sembled  to  destroy  all  the  fish  in  the  river.  I 
was  induced  at  last  to  lend  the  rod  to  the  sneer 
ing  scoundrel,  to  see  what  he  would  make  of  it ; 
and  he  not  only  half  filled  my  basket  in  an  hour, 
but  literally  taught  me  to  kill  two  trouts  with  my 
own  hand." 

Thus  ancient  and  well-authenticated  is  the 
superstition  of  the  angling  powers  of  the  bare 
footed  country-boy, — in  fiction. 

Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton,  in  that  valuable 
but  over-capitalised  book,  My  Novel,  makes  use 
of  Fishing  for  Allegorical  Purposes.  The  epi 
sode  of  John  Burley  and  the  One-eyed  Perch  not 
only  points  a  Moral  but  adorns  the  Tale. 

In  the  works  of  R.  D.  Blackmore,  angling 
plays  a  less  instructive  but  a  pleasanter  part.  It 
is  closely  interwoven  with  love.  There  is  a 
magical  description  of  trout-fishing  on  a  mea 
dow-brook  in  Alice  Lorraine.  And  who  that 


156  Fishing  in  Books 

has  read  Lorna  Do  one  (pity  for  the  man  or 
woman  that  knows  not  the  delight  of  that 
book!)  can  ever  forget  how  young  John  Ridd 
dared  his  way  up  the  gliddery  water-slide,  after 
loaches,  and  found  Lorna  in  a  fair  green  mea 
dow  adorned  with  flowers,  at  the  top  of  the 
brook  ? 

I  made  a  little  journey  into  the  Doone  Coun 
try  once,  just  to  see  that  brook  and  to  fish  in  it. 
The  stream  looked  smaller,  and  the  water-slide 
less  terrible,  than  they  seemed  in  the  book.  But 
it  was  a  mighty  pretty  place  after  all ;  and  I  sup 
pose  that  even  John  Ridd,  when  he  came  back  to 
it  in  after  years,  found  it  shrunken  a  little. 

All  the  streams  were  larger  in  our  boyhood 
than  they  are  now,  except,  perhaps,  that  which 
flows  from  the  sweetest  spring  of  all,  the  foun 
tain  of  love,  which  John  Ridd  discovered  beside 
the  Bagworthy  River, — and  I,  on  the  willow- 
shaded  banks  of  the  Patapso,  where  the  Balti 
more  girls  fish  for  gudgeons, — and  you  ?  Come, 
gentle  reader,  is  there  no  stream  whose  name  is 
musical  to  you,  because  of  a  hidden  spring  of 
love  that  you  once  found  on  its  shore?  The 
waters  of  that  fountain  never  fail,  and  in  them 


Fishing  in  Books  157 

alone  we  taste  the  undiminished  fullness  of  im 
mortal  youth. 

The  stories  of  William  Black  are  enlivened 
with  fish,  and  he  knew,  better  than  most  men, 
how  they  should  be  taken.  Whenever  he  wanted 
to  get  two  young  people  engaged  to  each  other, 
all  other  devices  failing,  he  sent  them  out  to 
angle  together.  If  it  had  not  been  for  fishing, 
everything  in  A  Princess  of  Thule  and  White 
Heather  would  have  gone  wrong. 

But  even  men  who  have  been  disappointed  in 
love  may  angle  for  solace  or  diversion.  I  have 
known  some  old  bachelors  who  fished  excellently 
well ;  and  others  I  have  known  who  could  find, 
and  give,  much  pleasure  in  a  day  on  the  stream, 
though  they  had  no  skill  in  the  sport.  Of  this 
class  was  Washington  Irving,  with  an  extract 
from  whose  Sketch  Book  I  will  bring  this  ram 
bling  dissertation  to  an  end. 

"Our  first  essay,"  says  he,  "was  along  a  moun 
tain  brook  among  the  highlands  of  the  Hudson ; 
a  most  unfortunate  place  for  the  execution  of 
those  piscatory  tactics  which  had  been  invented 
along  the  velvet  margins  of  quiet  English  rivu 
lets.  It  was  one  of  those  wild  streams  that 
lavish,  among  our  romantic  solitudes,  unheeded 


158  Fishing  in  Books 

beauties  enough  to  fill  the  sketch-book  of  a  hun 
ter  of  the  picturesque.  Sometimes  it  would  leap 
down  rocky  shelves,  making  small  cascades,  over 
which  the  trees  threw  their  broad  balancing 
sprays,  and  long  nameless  weeds  hung  in  fringes 
from  the  impending  banks,  dripping  with  dia* 
mond  drops.  Sometimes  it  would  brawl  and 
fret  along  a  ravine  in  the  matted  shade  of  a 
forest,  filling  it  with  murmurs;  and,  after  this 
termagant  career,  would  steal  forth  into  open 
day,  with  the  most  placid,  demure  face  imagin 
able;  as  I  have  seen  some  pestilent  shrew  of  a 
housewife,  after  filling  her  home  with  uproar 
and  ill-humour,  come  dimpling  out  of  doors, 
swimming  and  curtseying,  and  smiling  upon  all 
the  world. 

"  How  smoothly  would  this  vagrant  brook 
glide,  at  such  times,  through  some  bosom  of 
green  meadow-land  among  the  mountains, 
where  the  quiet  was  only  interrupted  by  the  oc 
casional  tinkling  of  a  bell  from  the  lazy  cattle 
among  the  clover,  or  the  sound  of  a  woodcut 
ter's  axe  from  the  neighbouring  forest ! 

"  For  my  part,  I  was  always  a  bungler  at  all 
kinds  of  sport  that  required  either  patience  or 
adroitness,  and  had  not  angled  above  half  an 


Fishing  in  Books  159 

hour  before  I  had  completely  '  satisfied  the  sen 
timent,'  and  convinced  myself  of  the  truth  of 
Izaak  Walton's  opinion,  that  angling  is  some 
thing  like  poetry, — a  man  must  be  born  to  it.  I 
hooked  myself  instead  of  the  fish;  tangled  my 
line  in  every  tree ;  lost  my  bait ;  broke  my  rod ; 
until  I  gave  up  the  attempt  in  despair,  and  passed 
the  day  under  the  trees,  reading  old  Izaak,  satis 
fied  that  it  was  his  fascinating  vein  of  honest 
simplicity  and  rural  feeling  that  had  bewitched 
me,  and  not  the  passion  for  angling." 


A  Norwegian  Honeymoon 


"  The  best  rose-bush,  after  all,  is  not  that  which  has 
the  fewest  thorns,  but  that  ivhich  bears  the  finest  roses." 
SOLOMON  SINGLEWITZ:  The  Life  of  Adam. 

I 

IT  was  not  all  unadulterated  sweetness,  of 
course.  There  were  enough  difficulties  in 
the  way  to  make  it  seem  desirable;  and  a  few 
stings  of  annoyance,  now  and  then,  lent 
piquancy  to  the  adventure.  But  a  good  memory, 
in  dealing  with  the  past,  has  the  art  of  straining 
out  all  the  beeswax  of  discomfort,  and  storing 
up  little  jars  of  pure  hydromel.  As  we  look 
back  at  our  six  weeks  in  Norway,  we  agree  that 
no  period  of  our  partnership  in  experimental 
honeymooning  has  yielded  more  honey  to  the 
same  amount  of  comb. 

Several  considerations  led  us  to  the  resolve  of 
taking  our  honeymoon  experimentally  rather 
than  chronologically.  We  started  from  the 

160 


A  Norwegian  Honeymoon  161 

self-evident  proposition  that  it  ought  to  be  the 
happiest  time  in  married  life. 

"  It  is  perfectly   ridiculous,"   said  my  lady 
Greygown,  "  to  suppose  that  a  thing  like  that 
can  be  fixed  by  the  calendar.     It  may  possibly 
fall  in  the  first  month  after  the  wedding,  but  it  is 
not  likely.     Just  think  how  slightly  two  people 
know  each  other  when  they  get  married.     They 
are  in  love,  of  course,  but  that  is  not  at  all  the 
same  as  being  well  acquainted.     Sometimes  the 
more  love,  the  less  acquaintance!     And  some 
times  the  more  acquaintance,  the  less  love !     Be 
sides,   at  first  there  are  always  the  notes  of 
thanks  for  the  wedding-presents  to  be  written, 
and  the  letters  of  congratulation  to  be  answered, 
and  it  is  awfully  hard  to  make  each  one  sound 
a  little  different  from  the  others  and  perfectly 
natural.     Then,  you  know,  everybody  seems  to 
suspect  you  of  the  folly  of  being  newly  married. 
You  run  across  your  friends  everywhere,  and 
they  grin  when  they  see  you.     You  can't  help 
feeling  as  if  a  lot  of  people  were  watching  you 
through  opera-glasses,  or  taking  snap-shots  at 
you  with  a  kodak.     It  is  absurd  to  imagine  that 
the  first  month  must  be  the  real  honeymoon. 
And  just  suppose  it  were, — what  bad  luck  that 
6 


162  A  Norwegian  Honeymoon 

would  be!     What  would  there  be  to  look  for 
ward  to?" 

Every  word  that  fell  from  her  lips  seemed  to 
me  like  the  wisdom  of  Diotima. 

"  You  are  right,"  I  cried;  "  Portia  could  not 
hold  a  candle  to  you  for  clear  argument.  Be 
sides,  suppose  two  people  are  imprudent  enough 
to  get  married  in  the  first  week  of  December,  as 
we  did! — what  becomes  of  the  chronological 
honeymoon  then?  There  is  no  fishing  in  De 
cember,  and  all  the  rivers  of  Paradise,  at  least 
in  our  latitude,  are  frozen  up.  No,  my  lady, 
we  will  discover  our  month  of  honey  by  the 
empirical  method.  Each  year  we  will  set  out 
together  to  seek  it  in  a  solitude  for  two ;  and  we 
will  compare  notes  on  moons,  and  strike  the 
final  balance  when  we  are  sure  that  our  happiest 
experiment  has  been  completed." 

We  are  not  sure  of  that,  even  yet.  We  are 
still  engaged,  as  a  committee  of  two,  in  our 
philosophical  investigation,  and  we  decline  to 
make  anything  but  a  report  of  progress.  We 
know  more  now  than  we  did  when  we  first  went 
honeymooning  in  the  city  of  Washington.  For 
one  thing,  we  are  certain  that  not  even  the  far- 
famed  rosemary-fields  of  Narbonne,  or  the  frag- 


A  Norwegian  Honeymoon  163 

rant  hillsides  of  the  Corbieres,  yield  a  sweeter 
harvest  to  the  busy-ness  of  the  bees  than  the 
Norwegian  meadows  and  mountain-slopes 
yielded  to  our  idleness  in  the  summer  of  1888. 


II 

The  rural  landscape  of  Norway,  on  the  long 
easterly  slope  that  leads  up  to  the  watershed 
among  the  mountains  of  the  western  coast,  is 
not  unlike  that  of  Vermont  or  New  Hampshire. 
The  railway  from  Christiania  to  the  Randsf jord 
carried  us  through  a  hilly  country  of  scattered 
farms  and  villages.  Wood  played  a  prominent 
part  in  the  scenery.  There  were  dark  stretches 
of  forest  on  the  hilltops  and  in  the  valleys; 
rivers  rilled  with  floating  logs;  sawmills  beside 
the  waterfalls;  wooden  farmhouses  painted 
white ;  and  rail- fences  around  the  fields.  The 
people  seemed  sturdy,  prosperous,  independent. 
They  had  the  familiar  habit  of  coming  down  to 
the  station  to  see  the  train  arrive  and  depart. 
We  might  have  fancied  ourselves  on  a  journey 
through  the  Connecticut  valley,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  the  soft  sing-song  of  the  Norwegian 
speech  and  the  uniform  politeness  of  the  rail 
way  officials. 


164  A  Norwegian  Honeymoon 

What  a  room  that  was  in  the  inn  at  Rands- 
fjord  where  we  spent  our  first  night  out!  Vast, 
bare,  primitive,  with  eight  windows  to  admit 
the  persistent  nocturnal  twilight ;  a  sea-like  floor 
of  blue-painted  boards,  unbroken  by  a  single 
island  of  carpet;  and  a  castellated  stove  in  one 
corner :  an  apartment  for  giants,  with  two  little 
beds  for  dwarfs  on  opposite  shores  of  the  ocean. 
There  was  no  telephone ;  so  we  arranged  a  sys 
tem  of  communication  with  a  fishing-line,  to 
make  sure  that  the  sleepy  partner  should  be 
awake  in  time  for  the  early  boat  in  the  morning. 

The  journey  up  the  lake  took  seven  hours, 
and  reminded  us  of  a  voyage  on  Lake  George ; 
placid,  picturesque,  and  pervaded  by  summer 
boarders.  Somewhere  on  the  way  we  had 
lunch,  and  were  well  fortified  to  take  the  road 
when  the  steamboat  landed  us  at  Odnaes,  at 
the  head  of  the  lake,  about  two  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon. 

There  are  several  methods  in  which  you  may 
drive  through  Norway.  The  government  main 
tains  posting-stations  at  the  farms  along  the 
main  travelled  highways,  where  you  can  hire 
horses  and  carriages  of  various  kinds.  There 
are  also  English  tourist  agencies  which  make  a 


A  Norwegian  Honeymoon  165 

business  of  providing  travellers  with  complete 
transportation.  You  may  try  either  of  these 
methods  alone,  or  you  may  make  a  judicious 
mixture. 

Thus,  by  an  application  of  the  theory  of  per 
mutations  and  combinations,  you  have  your 
choice  among  four  ways  of  accomplishing  a 
driving-tour.  First,  you  may  engage  a  carriage 
and  pair,  with  a  driver,  from  one  of  the  tourist 
agencies,  and  roll  through  your  journey  in  seden 
tary  ease,  provided  your  horses  do  not  go  lame 
or  give  out.  Second,  you  may  rely  altogether 
upon  the  posting-stations  to  send  you  on  your 
journey;  and  this  is  a  very  pleasant,  lively  way, 
provided  there  is  not  a  crowd  of  travellers  on 
the  road  before  you,  who  take  up  all  the  com 
fortable  conveyances  and  leave  you  nothing  but 
a  jolting  cart  or  a  ramshackle  kariol  of  the  time 
of  St.  Olaf.  Third,  you  may  rent  an  easy- 
riding  vehicle  (by  choice  a  well-hung  gig)  for 
the  entire  trip,  and  change  ponies  at  the  stations 
as  you  drive  along ;  this  is  the  safest  way.  The 
fourth  method  is  to  hire  your  horseflesh  at  the 
beginning  for  the  whole  journey,  and  pick  up 
your  vehicles  from  place  to  place.  This  method 


1 66  A  Norwegian  Honeymoon 

is  theoretically  possible,  but  I  do  not  know  any 
one  who  has  tried  it. 

Our  gig  was  waiting  for  us  at  Odnaes.  There 
was  a  brisk  little  mouse-coloured  pony  in  the 
shafts;  and  it  took  but  a  moment  to  strap  our 
leather  portmanteau  on  the  board  at  the  back, 
perch  the  postboy  on  top  of  it,  and  set  out  for 
our  first  experience  of  a  Norwegian  driving- 
tour. 

The  road  at  first  was  level  and  easy;  and  we 
bowled  along  smoothly  through  the  valley  of 
the  Etnaelv,  among  drooping  birch-trees  and 
green  fields  where  the  larks  were  singing.  At 
Tomlevolden,  ten  miles  farther  on,  we  reached 
the  first  station,  a  comfortable  old  farmhouse, 
with  a  great  array  of  wooden  outbuildings. 
Here  we  had  a  chance  to  try  our  luck  with  the 
Norwegian  language  in  demanding  "  en  hest, 
saa  strax  som  muligt"  This  was  what  the 
guide-book  told  us  to  say  when  we  wanted  a 
horse. 

There  is  great  fun  in  making  a  random  cast 
on  the  surface  of  a  strange  language.  You 
cannot  tell  what  will  come  up.  It  is  like  an  ex 
periment  in  witchcraft.  We  should  not  have 
been  at  all  surprised,  I  must  confess,  if  our  pre- 


A  Norwegian  Honeymoon  167 

liminary  incantation  had  brought  forth  a  cow 
or  a  basket  of  eggs. 

But  the  good  people  seemed  to  divine  our  in 
tentions  ;  and  while  we  were  waiting  for  one  of 
the  stable-boys  to  catch  and  harness  the  new 
horse,  a  yellow-haired  maiden  inquired,  in  very 
fair  English,  if  we  would  not  be  pleased  to  have 
a  cup  of  tea  and  some  butter-bread;  which  we 
did  with  great  comfort. 

The  Skydsgut,  or  so-called  postboy,  for  the 
next  stage  of  the  journey,  was  a  full-grown 
man  of  considerable  weight.  As  he  climbed  to 
his  perch  on  our  portmanteau,  my  lady  Grey- 
gown  congratulated  me  on  the  prudence  which 
had  provided  that  one  side  of  that  receptacle 
should  be  of  an  inflexible  stiffness,  quite  in 
capable  of  being  crushed;  otherwise,  asked  she, 
what  would  have  become  of  her  Sunday  frock 
under  the  pressure  of  this  stern  necessity  of  a 
postboy  ? 

But  I  think  we  should  not  have  cared  very 
much  if  all  our  luggage  had  been  smashed  on 
this  journey,  for  the  road  now  began  to  ascend, 
and  the  views  over  the  Etnadal,  with  its  winding 
river,  were  of  a  breadth  and  sweetness  most 
consoling.  Up  and  up  we  went,  curving  in  and 


1 68  A  Norwegian  Honeymoon 

out  through  the  forest,  crossing  wild  ravines 
and  shadowy  dells,  looking  back  at  every  turn 
on  the  wide  landscape  bathed  in  golden  light. 
At  the  station  of   Sveen,  where  we  changed 
horse  and  postboy  again,  it  was  already  even 
ing.       The  sun  was   down,   but   the  mystical 
radiance  of  the  northern  twilight  illumined  the 
sky.     The  dark  fir-woods   spread  around  us, 
and  their  odorous  breath  was  diffused  through 
the  cool,  still  air.     We  were  crossing  the  level 
summit  of  the  plateau,  twenty-three  hundred 
feet  above  the  sea.     Two  tiny  woodland  lakes 
gleamed  out  among  the  trees.     Then  the  road 
began  to  slope  gently  towards  the  west,  and 
emerged  suddenly  on  the  edge  of  the  forest, 
looking  out  over  the  long,  lovely  vale  of  Val- 
ders,  with  snow-touched  mountains  on  the  hori 
zon,  and  the  river  Baegna  shimmering  along  its 
bed,  a  thousand  feet  below  us. 

What  a  heart-enlarging  outlook!  What  a 
keen  joy  of  motion,  as  the  wheels  rolled  down 
the  long  incline,  and  the  sure-footed  pony  swung 
between  the  shafts  and  rattled  his  hoofs  merrily 
on  the  hard  road !  What  long,  deep  breaths  of 
silent  pleasure  in  the  crisp  night  air!  What 
wondrous  mingling  of  lights  in  the  afterglow  of 


A  Norwegian  Honeymoon  169 

sunset,  and  the  primrose  bloom  of  the  first 
stars,  and  faint  foregleamings  of  the  rising 
moon  creeping  over  the  hill  behind  us !  What 
perfection  of  companionship  without  words, 
as  we  rode  together  through  a  strange  land, 
along  the  edge  of  the  dark ! 

When  we  finished  the  thirty-fifth  mile,  and 
drew  up  in  the  courtyard  of  the  station  at  Fry- 
denlund,  Greygown  sprang  out,  with  a  little  sigh 
of  regret. 

"  Is  it  last  night,"  she  cried,  "  or  to-morrow 
morning  ?  I  haven't  the  least  idea  what  time  it 
is;  it  seems  as  if  we  had  been  travelling  in  eter 
nity." 

"  It  is  just  ten  o'clock,"  I  answered,  "  and 
the  landlord  says  there  will  be  a  hot  supper  of 
trout  ready  for  us  in  five  minutes." 

It  would  be  vain  to  attempt  to  give  a  daily 
record  of  the  whole  journey  in  which  we  made 
this  fair  beginning.  It  was  a  most  idle  and 
unsystematic  pilgrimage.  We  wandered  up 
and  down,  and  turned  aside  when  fancy 
beckoned.  Sometimes  we  hurried  on  as  fast 
as  the  horses  would  carry  us,  driving  sixty  or 
seventy  miles  a  day ;  sometimes  we  loitered  and 
dawdled,  as  if  we  did  not  care  whether  we  got 
6* 


170  A  Norwegian  Honeymoon 

anywhere  or  not,  If  a  place  pleased  us,  we 
stayed  and  tried  the  fishing.  If  we  were  tired 
of  driving,  we  took  to  the  water,  and  travelled 
by  steamer  along  a  fjord,  or  hired  a  rowboat  to 
cross  from  point  to  point.  One  day  we  would 
be  in  a  good  little  hotel,  with  polyglot  guests, 
and  serving-maids  in  stagey  Norse  costumes, — 
like  the  famous  inn  at  Stalheim,  which  com 
mands  the  amazing  panorama  of  the  Naerodal. 
Another  day  we  would  lodge  in  a  plain  farm 
house  like  the  station  at  Nedre  Vasenden,  where 
eggs  and  fish  were  the  staples  of  diet,  and  the 
farmer's  daughter  wore  the  picturesque  peasant's 
dress,  with  its  tall  cap,  without  any  dramatic 
airs.  Lakes  and  rivers,  precipices  and  gorges, 
waterfalls  and  glaciers  and  snowy  mountains 
were  our  daily  repast.  We  drove  over  five  hun 
dred  miles  in  various  kinds  of  open  wagons, 
kariols  for  one,  and  stolkjaerres  for  two,  after 
we  had  left  our  comfortable  gig  behind  us.  We 
saw  the  ancient  dragon-gabled  church  of  Bur- 
gund;  and  the  delightful,  showery  town  of  Ber 
gen;  and  the  gloomy  cliffs  of  the  Geiranger- 
Fjord  laced  with  filmy  cataracts;  and  the  be 
witched  crags  of  the  Romsdal;  and  the  wide, 
desolate  landscape  of  Jerkin;  and  a  hundred 


A  Norwegian  Honeymoon  171 

other  unforgotten  scenes.  Somehow  or  other 
we  went,  (around  and  about,  and  up  and  down, 
now  on  wheels,  and  now  on  foot,  and  now  in  a 
boat,)  all  the  way  from  Christiana  to  Trond- 
hjem.  My  lady  Greygown  could  give  you  the 
exact  itinerary,  for  she  has  been  well  brought 
up,  and  always  keeps  a  diary.  All  I  know  is, 
that  we  set  out  from  one  city  and  arrived  at  the 
other,  and  we  gathered  by  the  way  a  collection 
of  instantaneous  photographs.  I  am  going  to 
turn  them  over  now,  and  pick  out  a  few  of  the 
clearest  pictures. 

Ill 

Here  is  the  bridge  over  the  Naeselv  at  Fager- 
naes.  Just  below  it  is  a  good  pool  for  trout, 
but  the  river  is  broad  and  deep  and  swift.  It  is 
difficult  wading  to  get  out  within  reach  of  the 
fish.  I  have  taken  half  a  dozen  small  ones  and 
come  to  the  end  of  my  cast.  There  is  a  big  one 
lying  out  in  the  middle  of  the  river,  I  am  sure. 
But  the  water  already  rises  to  my  hips ;  another 
step  will  bring  it  over  the  top  of  my  waders, 
and  send  me  downstream  feet  uppermost. 

"Take    care!"    cries    Greygown    from    the 


172  A   'Norwegian  Honeymoon 

grassy  bank,  where  she  sits  placidly  crocheting 
some  mysterious  fabric  of  white  yarn. 

She  does  not  see  the  large  rock  lying  at  the 
bottom  of  the  river  just  beyond  me.  If  I  can 
step  on  that,  and  stand  there  without  being 
swept  away,  I  can  reach  the  mid-current  with 
my  flies.  It  is  a  long  stride  and  a  slippery  foot 
hold,  but  by  good  luck  "  the  last  step  which 
costs  "  is  accomplished.  The  tiny  black  and 
orange  hackle  goes  curling  out  over  the  stream, 
lights  softly,  and  swings  around  with  the  cur 
rent,  folding  and  expanding  its  feathers  as  if  it 
were  alive.  The  big  trout  takes  it  promptly  the 
instant  it  passes  over  him;  and  I  play  him  and 
net  him  without  moving  from  my  perilous  perch. 

Greygown  waves  her  crochet-work  like  a  flag, 
"  Bravo !  "  she  cries.  "  That's  a  beauty,  nearly 
two  pounds!  But  do  be  careful  about  coming 
back ;  you  are  not  good  enough  to  take  any  risks 
yet." 

The  station  at  Skogstad  is  a  solitary  farm 
house  lying  far  up  on  the  bare  hillside,  with  its 
barns  and  out-buildings  grouped  around  a  cen 
tral  courtyard,  like  a  rude  fortress.  The  river 
travels  along  the  valley  below,  now  wrestling 


A  Norwegian  Honeymoon  173 

its  way  through  a  narrow  passage  among  the 
rocks,  now  spreading  out  at  leisure  in  a  green 
meadow.  As  we  cross  the  bridge,  the  crystal 
water  is  changed  to  opal  by  the  sunset  glow,  and 
a  gentle  breeze  ruffles  the  long  pools,  and  the 
trout  are  rising  freely.  It  is  the  perfect  hour 
for  fishing.  Would  Greygown  dare  to  drive 
on  alone  to  the  gate  of  the  fortress,  and  blow 
upon  the  long  horn  which  doubtless  hangs  be 
side  it,  and  demand  admittance  and  a  lodging, 
"  in  the  name  of  the  great  Jehovah  and  the  Con 
tinental  Congress," — while  I  angle  down  the 
river  a  mile  or  so  ? 

Certainly  she  would.  What  door  is  there  in 
Europe  at  which  the  American  girl  is  afraid  to 
knock  ?  "  But  wait  a  moment.  How  do  you 
ask  for  fried  chicken  and  pancakes  in  Norwe 
gian?  Kylling  og  Pandekagef  How  fierce  it 
sounds !  All  right  now.  Run  along  and  fish." 

The  river  welcomes  me  like  an  old  friend. 
The  tune  that  it  sings  is  the  same  that  the  flow 
ing  water  repeats  all  around  the  world.  Not 
otherwise  do  the  lively  rapids  carry  the  familiar 
air,  and  the  larger  falls  drone  out  a  burly  bass, 
along  the  west  branch  of  the  Penobscot,  or  down 
the  valley  of  the  Bouquet.  But  here  there  are 


174  ^  Norwegian  Honeymoon 

no  forests  to  conceal  the  course  of  the  stream. 
It  lies  as  free  to  the  view  as  a  child's  thought. 
As  I  follow  on  from  pool  to  pool,  picking  out 
a  good  trout  here  and  there,  now  from  a  rocky 
corner  edged  with  foam,  now  from  a  swift 
gravelly  run,  now  from  a  snug  hiding-place  that 
the  current  has  hollowed  out  beneath  the  bank, 
all  the  way  I  can  see  the  fortress  far  above  me 
on  the  hillside. 

I  am  as  sure  that  it  has  already  surrendered 
to  Greygown  as  if  I  could  discern  her  white 
banner  of  crochet-work  floating  from  the  battle 
ments. 

Just  before  dark,  I  climb  the  hill  with  a  heavy 
basket  of  fish.  The  castle  gate  is  open.  The 
scent  of  chicken  and  pancakes  salutes  the  weary 
pilgrim.  In  a  cosy  little  parlour,  adorned  with 
fluffy  mats  and  pictures  framed  in  pine-cones, 
lit  by  a  hanging  lamp  with  glass  pendants,  sits 
the  mistress  of  the  occasion,  calmly  triumphant 
and  plying  her  crochet-needle. 

There  is  something  mysterious  about  a 
woman's  fancy-work.  It  seems  to  have  all  the 
soothing  charm  of  the  tobacco-plant,  without  its 
inconveniences.  Just  to  see  her  tranquillity, 
while  she  relaxes  her  mind  and  busies  her  fin- 


A  Norwegian  Honeymoon  175 

gers  with  a  bit  of  tatting  or  embroidery  or 
crochet,  gives  me  a  sense  of  being  domesticated, 
a  "  homey "  feeling,  anywhere  in  the  wide 
world. 

If  you  ever  go  to  Norway,  you  must  be  sure 
to  see  the  Loenvand.  You  can  set  out  from 
the  comfortable  hotel  at  Faleide,  go  up  the  Ind- 
vik  Fjord  in  a  rowboat,  cross  over  a  two-mile 
hill  on  foot  or  by  carriage,  spend  a  happy  day  on 
the  lake,  and  return  to  your  inn  in  time  for  a 
late  supper.  The  lake  is  perhaps  the  most 
beautiful  in  Norway.  Long  and  narrow,  it  lies 
like  a  priceless  emerald  of  palest  green,  hidden 
and  guarded  by  jealous  mountains.  It  is  fed 
by  huge  glaciers,  which  hang  over  the  shoulders 
of  the  hills  like  ragged  cloaks  of  ice. 

As  we  row  along  the  shore,  trolling  in  vain 
for  the  trout  that  live  in  the  ice-cold  water, 
fragments  of  the  tattered  cloth-of-silver  far 
above  us,  on  the  opposite  side,  are  loosened  by 
the  touch  of  the  summer  sun,  and  fall  from  the 
precipice.  They  drift  downward,  at  first,  as 
noiselessly  as  thistledowns ;  then  they  strike  the 
rocks  and  come  crashing  towards  the  lake  with 
the  hollow  roar  of  an  avalanche, 


176  A  Norwegian  Honeymoon 

At  the  head  of  the  lake  we  find  ourselves  in 
an  enormous  amphitheatre  of  mountains.  Gla 
ciers  are  peering  down  upon  us.  Snow-fields 
glare  at  us  with  glistening  eyes.  Black  crags 
seem  to  bend  above  us  with  an  eternal  frown. 
Streamers  of  foam  float  from  the  forehead  of 
the  hills  and  the  lips  of  the  dark  ravines.  But 
there  is  a  little  river  of  cold,  pure  water  flowing 
from  one  of  the  rivers  of  ice,  and  a  pleasant 
shelter  of  young  trees  and  bushes  growing 
among  the  debris  of  shattered  rocks ;  and  there 
we  build  our  camp-fire  and  eat  our  lunch. 

Hunger  is  a  most  impudent  appetite.  It 
makes  a  man  forget  all  the  proprieties.  What 
place  is  there  so  lofty,  so  awful,  that  he  will 
not  dare  to  sit  down  in  it  and  partake  of  food? 
Even  on  the  side  of  Mount  Sinai,  the  elders  of 
Israel  spread  their  out-of-door  table,  "  and  did 
eat  and  drink." 

I  see  the  Tarn  of  the  Elk  at  this  moment, 
just  as  it  looked  in  the  clear  sunlight  of  that 
August  afternoon,  ten  years  ago.  Far  down  in 
a  hollow  of  the  desolate  hills  it  nestles,  four 
thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  The  moorland 
trail  hangs  high  above  it,  and,  though  it  is  a 


A  Norwegian  Honeymoon  177 

mile  away,  every  curve  of  the  treeless  shore, 
every  shoal  and  reef  in  the  light  green  water  is 
clearly  visible.  With  a  powerful  field-glass  one 
can  almost  see  the  large  trout  for  which  the 
pond  is  famous. 

The  shelter-hut  on  the  bank  is  built  of  rough 
grey  stones,  and  the  roof  is  leaky  to  the  light  as 
well  as  to  the  weather.  But  there  are  two  beds 
in  it,  one  for  my  guide  and  one  for  me;  and  a 
practicable  fireplace,  which  is  soon  filled  with  a 
blaze  of  comfort.  There  is  also  a  random 
library  of  novels,  which  former  fishermen  have 
thoughtfully  left  behind  them.  I  like  strong 
reading  in  the  wilderness.  Give  me  a  story  with 
plenty  of  danger  and  wholesome  fighting  in  it, — 
"The  Three  Musketeers,"  or  "Treasure  Is 
land,"  or  "  The  Afghan's  Knife."  Intricate 
studies  of  social  dilemmas  and  tales  of  mild 
philandering  seem  bloodless  and  insipid. 

The  trout  in  the  Tarn  of  the  Elk  are  large, 
undoubtedly,  but  they  are  also  few  in  number 
and  shy  in  disposition.  Either  some  of  the 
peasants  have  been  fishing  over  them  with  the 
deadly  "otter,"  or  else  they  belong  to  that 
variety  of  the  trout  family  known  as  Trutta 
damnosa—the  species  which  you  can  see  but 


178  A  Norwegian  Honeymoon 

cannot  take.  We  watched  these  aggravating 
fish  playing  on  the  surface  at  sunset;  we  saw 
them  dart  beneath  our  boat  in  the  early  morning ; 
but  not  until  a  driving  snowstorm  set  in,  about 
noon  of  the  second  day,  did  we  succeed  in  per 
suading  any  of  them  to  take  the  fly.  Then  they 
rose,  for  a  couple  of  hours,  with  amiable  perver 
sity.  I  caught  five,  weighing  between  two  and 
four  pounds  each,  and  stopped  because  my  hands 
were  so  numb  that  I  could  cast  no  longer. 

Now  for  a  long  tramp  over  the  hills  and 
home.  Yes,  home;  for  yonder  in  the  white 
house  at  Drivstuen,  with  fuchsias  and  geraniums 
blooming  in  the  windows,  and  a  pretty,  friendly 
Norse  girl  to  keep  her  company,  my  lady  is  wait 
ing  for  me.  See,  she  comes  running  out  to  the 
door,  in  the  gathering  dusk,  with  a  red  flower  in 
her  hair,  and  hails  me  with  the  fisherman's 
greeting.  What  luck? 

Well,  this  luck  at  all  events !  I  can  show  you 
a  few  good  fish,  and  sit  down  with  you  to  a 
supper  of  reindeer-venison  and  a  quiet  evening 
of  music  and  talk. 

Shall  I  forgot  thee,  hospitable  Stuefloten, 
dearest  to  our  memory  of  all  the  rustic  stations 


A  Norwegian  Honeymoon  179 

in  Norway?  There  are  no  stars  beside  thy 
name  in  the  pages  of  Baedeker.  But  in  the  book 
of  our  hearts  a  whole  constellation  is  thine. 

The  long,  low,  white  farmhouse  stands  on  a 
green  hill  at  the  head  of  the  Romsdal.  A 
flourishing  crop  of  grass  and  flowers  grows  on 
the  stable-roof,  and  there  is  a  little  belfry  with  a 
big  bell  to  call  the  labourers  home  from  the 
fields.  In  the  corner  of  the  living-room  of  the 
old  house  there  is  a  broad  fireplace  built  across 
the  angle.  Curious  cupboards  are  tucked  away 
everywhere.  The  long  table  in  the  dining-room 
groans  thrice  a  day  with  generous  fare.  There 
are  as  many  kinds  of  hot  bread  as  in  a  Virginia 
country-house;  the  cream  is  thick  enough  to 
make  a  spoon  stand  up  in  amazement;  once,  at 
dinner,  we  sat  embarrassed  before  six  different 
varieties  of  pudding. 

In  the  evening,  when  the  saffron  light  is  be 
ginning  to  fade,  we  go  out  and  walk  in  the  road 
before  the  house,  looking  down  the  long 
mystical  vale  of  the  Rauma,  or  up  to  the  purple 
western  hills  from  which  the  clear  streams  of 
the  Ulvaa  flow  to  meet  us. 

About  Stuefloten  the  Rauma  lingers  and 
meanders  through  a  smoother  and  more  open 


180  A  Norwegian  Honeymoon 

valley,  with  broad  beds  of  gravel  and  flowery 
meadows.  Here  the  trout  and  grayling  grow 
fat  and  lusty,  and  here  we  angle  for  them,  day 
after  day,  in  water  so  crystalline  that  when  one 
steps  into  the  stream  one  hardly  knows  whether 
to  expect  a  depth  of  six  inches  or  six  feet. 

Tiny  English  flies  and  leaders  of  gossamer 
are  the  tackle  for  such  water  in  midsummer. 
With  this  delicate  outfit,  and  with  a  light  hand 
and  a  long  line,  one  may  easily  outfish  the  native 
angler,  and  fill  a  twelve-pound  basket  every  fair 
day.  I  remember  an  old  Norwegian,  an  in 
veterate  fisherman,  whose  footmarks  we  saw 
ahead  of  us  on  the  stream  all  through  an  after 
noon.  Footmarks  I  call  them;  and  so  they 
were,  literally,  for  there  were  only  the  prints  of 
a  single  foot  to  be  seen  on  the  banks  of  sand, 
and  between  them,  a  series  of  small,  round,  deep 
holes. 

"What  kind  of  a  bird  made  those  marks, 
Frederik  ?  "  I  asked  my  faithful  guide. 

'  That  is  old  Pedersen,"  he  said,  "  with  his 
wooden  leg.  He  makes  a  dot  after  every  step. 
We  shall  catch  him  in  a  little  while." 

Sure  enough,  about  six  o'clock  we  saw  him 


A  Norwegian  Honeymoon  181 

standing  on  a  grassy  point,  hurling  his  line, 
with  a  fat  worm  on  the  end  of  it,  far  across  the 
stream,  and  letting  it  drift  down  with  the  cur 
rent.  But  the  water  was  too  fine  for  that  style 
of  fishing,  and  the  poor  old  fellow  had  but  a 
half-dozen  little  fish.  My  creel  was  already 
overflowing,  so  I  emptied  out  all  of  the  grayling 
into  his  bag,  and  went  on  up  the  river  to  com 
plete  my  tale  of  trout  before  dark. 

And  when  the  fishing  is  over,  there  is  Grey- 
gown  with  the  wagon,  waiting  at  the  appointed 
place  under  the  trees,  beside  the  road.  The 
sturdy  white  pony  trots  gaily  homeward.  The 
pale  yellow  stars  blossom  out  above  the  hills 
again,  as  they  did  on  that  first  night  when  we 
were  driving  down  into  the  Valders.  Frederik 
leans  over  the  back  of  the  seat,  telling  us  mar 
vellous  tales,  in  his  broken  English,  of  the  fish 
ing  in  a  certain  lake  among  the  mountains,  and 
of  the  reindeer-shooting  on  the  fjeld  beyond  it. 

"  It  is  sad  that  you  go  to-morrow,"  says  he ; 
"  but  you  come  back  another  year,  I  think,  to 
fish  in  that  lake,  and  to  shoot  those  reindeer." 

Yes,  Frederik,  we  are  coming  back  to  Norway 
some  day,  perhaps, — who  can  tell  ?  It  is  one  of 


1 82  A  Norwegian  Honeymoon 

the  hundred  places  that  we  are  vaguely  planning 
to  revisit.  For,  though  we  did  not  see  the  mid 
night  sun  there,  we  saw  the  honeymoon  most 
distinctly.  And  it  was  bright  enough  to  take 
pictures  by  its  light. 


Who  Owns  the  Mountains  ? 


"My  heart  is  fixed  firm  and  stable  in  the  belief  that 
ultimately  the  sunshine  and  the  summer,  the  flowers  and 
the  azure  sky,  shall  become,  as  it  were,  interwoven  into 
man's  existence.  He  shall  take  from  all  their  beauty  and 
enjoy  their  glory." — RICHARD  JEFFERIES  :  The  Life  of  the 
Fields. 

IT  was  the  little  lad  that  asked  the  question; 
and  the  answer  also,  as  you  will  see,  was 
mainly  his. 

We  had  been  keeping  Sunday  afternoon  to 
gether  in  our  favourite  fashion,  following  out 
that  pleasant  text  which  tells  us  to  "  behold  the 
fowls  of  the  air."  There  is  no  injunction  of 
Holy  Writ  less  burdensome  in  acceptance,  or 
more  profitable  in  obedience,  than  this  easy  out- 
of-doors  commandment.  For  several  hours  we 
walked  in  the  way  of  this  precept,  through  the 
untangled  woods  that  lie  behind  the  Forest  Hills 
Lodge,  where  a  pair  of  pigeon-hawks  had  their 
nest;  and  around  the  brambly  shores  of  the 
183 


184  Who  Owns  the  Mountains? 

small  pond,  where  Maryland  yellow-throats  and 
song-sparrows  were  settled;  and  under  the  lofty 
hemlocks  of  the  fragment  of  forest  across  the 
road,  where  rare  warblers  flitted  silently  among 
the  tree-tops.  The  light  beneath  the  evergreens 
was  growing  dim  as  we  came  out  from  their 
shadow  into  the  widespread  glow  of  the  sunset, 
on  the  edge  of  a  grassy  hill,  overlooking  the  long 
valley  of  the  Gale  River,  and  uplooking  to  the 
Franconia  Mountains. 

It  was  the  benediction  hour.  The  placid  air 
of  the  day  shed  a  new  tranquillity  over  the  con 
soling  landscape.  The  heart  of  the  earth  seemed 
to  taste  a  repose  more  perfect  than  that  of  com 
mon  days.  A  hermit-thrush,  far  up  the  vale, 
sang  his  vesper  hymn ;  while  the  swallows,  seek 
ing  their  evening  meal,  circled  above  the  river- 
fields  without  an  effort,  twittering  softly,  now 
and  then,  as  if  they  must  give  thanks.  Slight 
and  indefinable  touches  in  the  scene,  perhaps  the 
mere  absence  of  the  tiny  human  figures  passing 
along  the  road  or  labouring  in  the  distant  mea 
dows,  perhaps  the  blue  curls  of  smoke  rising 
lazily  from  the  farmhouse  chimneys,  or  the 
family  groups  sitting  under  the  maple-trees  be- 


Who  Owns  the  Mountains?  185 

fore  the  door,  diffused  a  sabbath  atmosphere 
over  the  world. 

Then  said  the  lad,  lying  on  the  grass  beside 
me,  "  Father,  who  owns  the  mountains?  " 

I  happened  to  have  heard,  the  day  before,  of 
two  or  three  lumber  companies  that  had  bought 
some  of  the  woodland  slopes;  so  I  told  him  their 
names,  adding  that  there  were  probably  a  good 
many  different  owners,  whose  claims  taken  all 
together  would  cover  the  whole  Franconia  range 
of  hills. 

"  Well,"  answered  the  lad,  after  a  moment  of 
silence,  "  I  don't  see  what  difference  that  makes. 
Everybody  can  look  at  them." 

They  lay  stretched  out  before  us  in  the  level 
sunlight,  the  sharp  peaks  outlined  against  the 
sky,  the  vast  ridges  of  forest  sinking  smoothly 
towards  the  valleys,  the  deep  hollows  gathering 
purple  shadows  in  their  bosoms,  and  the  little 
foothills  standing  out  in  rounded  promontories 
of  brighter  green  from  the  darker  mass  behind 
them. 

Far  to  the  east,  the  long  comb  of  Twin  Moun 
tain  extended  itself  back  into  the  untrodden  wil 
derness.  Mount  Garfield  lifted  a  clear-cut 
pyramid  through  the  translucent  air.  The  huge 


1 86  Who  Owns  the  Mountains? 

bulk  of  Lafayette  ascended  majestically  in  front 
of  us,  crowned  with  a  rosy  diadem  of  rocks. 
Eagle  Cliff  and  Bald  Mountain  stretched  their 
line  of  scalloped  peaks  across  the  entrance  to 
the  Notch.  Beyond  that  shadowy  vale,  the 
swelling  summits  of  Cannon  Mountain  rolled 
away  to  meet  the  tumbling  waves  of  Kinsman, 
dominated  by  one  loftier  crested  billow  that 
seemed  almost  ready  to  curl  and  break  out  of 
green  silence  into  snowy  foam.  Far  down  the 
sleeping  Landaff  valley  the  undulating  dome  of 
Moosilauke  trembled  in  the  distant  blue. 

They  were  all  ours,  from  crested  cliff  to 
wooded  base.  The  solemn  groves  of  firs  and 
spruces,  the  plumed  sierras  of  lofty  pines,  the 
stately  pillared  forests  of  birch  and  beech,  the 
wild  ravines,  the  tremulous  thickets  of  silvery 
poplar,  the  bare  peaks  with  their  wide  outlooks, 
and  the  cool  vales  resounding  with  the  ceaseless 
song  of  little  rivers, — we  knew  and  loved  them 
all;  they  ministered  peace  and  joy  to  us;  they 
were  all  ours,  though  we  held  no  title-deeds  and 
our  ownership  had  never  been  recorded. 

What  is  property,  after  all?  The  law  says 
there  are  two  kinds,  real  and  personal.  But  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  only  real  property  is  that 


Who  Owns  the  Mountains?  187 

which  is  truly  personal,  that  which  we  take  into 
our  inner  life  and  make  our  own  for  ever,  by 
understanding  and  admiration  and  sympathy 
and  love.  This  is  the  only  kind  of  possession 
that  is  worth  anything. 

A  gallery  of  great  paintings  adorns  the  house 
of  the  Honourable  Midas  Bond,  and  every  year 
adds  a  new  treasure  to  his  collection.  He  knows 
how  much  they  cost  him,  and  he  keeps  the  run 
of  the  quotations  at  the  auction  sales,  congratu 
lating  himself  as  the  price  of  the  works  of  his 
well-chosen  artists  rises  in  the  scale,  and  the 
value  of  his  art  treasures  is  enhanced.  But  why 
should  he  call  them  his?  He  is  only  their  cus 
todian.  He  keeps  them  well  varnished,  and 
framed  in  gilt.  But  he  never  passes  through 
those  gilded  frames  into  the  world  of  beauty 
that  lies  behind  the  painted  canvas.  He  knows 
nothing  of  those  lovely  places  from  which  the 
artist's  soul  and  hand  have  drawn  their  inspira 
tion.  They  are  closed  and  barred  to  him.  He 
has  bought  the  pictures,  but  he  cannot  buy  the 
key.  The  poor  art  student  who  wanders 
through  his  gallery,  lingering  with  awe  and  love 
before  the  masterpieces,  owns  them  far  more 
truly  than  Midas  does. 


1 88  Who  Owns  the  Mountains? 

Pomposus  Silverman  purchased  a  rich  library 
a  few  years  ago.  The  books  were  rare  and 
costly.  That  was  the  reason  why  Pomposus 
bought  them.  He  was  proud  to  feel  that  he 
was  the  possessor  of  literary  treasures  which 
were  not  to  be  found  in  the  houses  of  his 
wealthiest  acquaintances.  But  the  threadbare 
Biicherfreund,  who  was  engaged  at  a  slender 
salary  to  catalogue  the  library  and  take  care  of 
it,  became  the  real  proprietor.  Pomposus  paid 
for  the  books,  but  Biicherfreund  enjoyed  them. 

I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  possession  of 
much  money  is  always  a  barrier  to  real  wealth 
of  mind  and  heart.  Nor  would  I  maintain  that 
all  the  poor  of  this  world  are  rich  in  faith  and 
heirs  of  the  kingdom.  But  some  of  them  are. 
And  if  some  of  the  rich  of  this  world  (through 
the  grace  of  Him  with  whom  all  things  are  pos 
sible)  are  also  modest  in  their  tastes,  and  gentle 
in  their  hearts,  and  open  in  their  minds,  and 
ready  to  be  pleased  with  unbought  pleasures, 
they  simply  share  in  the  best  things  which  are 
provided  for  all. 

I  speak  not  now  of  the  strife  that  men  wage 
over  the  definition  and  the  laws  of  property. 
Doubtless  there  is  much  here  that  needs  to  be 


Who  Owns  the  Mountains?  189 

set  right.  There  are  men  and  women  in  the 
world  who  are  shut  out  from  the  right  to  earn 
a  living,  so  poor  that  they  must  perish  for  want 
of  daily  bread,  so  full  of  misery  that  there  is  no 
room  for  the  tiniest  seed  of  joy  in  their  lives. 
This  is  the  lingering  shame  'of  civilisation. 
Some  day,  perhaps,  we  shall  find  the  way  to 
banish  it.  Some  day,  every  man  shall  have  his 
title  to  a  share  in  the  world's  great  work  and 
the  world's  large  joy. 

But  meantime  it  is  certain  that,  where  there 
are  a  hundred  poor  bodies  who  suffer  from 
physical  privation,  there  are  a  thousand  poor 
souls  who  suffer  from  spiritual  poverty.  To 
relieve  this  greater  suffering  there  needs  no 
change  of  laws,  only  a  change  of  heart. 

What  does  it  profit  a  man  to  be  the  landed 
proprietor  of  countless  acres  unless  he  can  reap 
the  harvest  of  delight  that  blooms  from  every 
rood  of  God's  earth  for  the  seeing  eye  and  the 
loving  spirit?  And  who  can  reap  that  harvest 
so  closely  that  there  shall  not  be  abundant  glean 
ing  left  for  all  mankind  ?  The  most  that  a  wide 
estate  can  yield  to  its  legal  owner  is  a  living. 
But  the  real  owner  can  gather  from  a  field  of 


190  Who  Owns  the  Mountains  ? 

goldenrod,  shining  in  the  August  sunlight,  an 
unearned  increment  of  delight. 

We  measure  success  by  accumulation.  The 
measure  is  false.  The  true  measure  is  apprecia 
tion.  He  who  loves  most  has  most. 

How  foolishly  we  train  ourselves  for  the 
work  of  life!  We  give  our  most  arduous  and 
eager  efforts  to  the  cultivation  of  those  faculties 
which  will  serve  us  in  the  competitions  of  the 
forum  and  the  market-place.  But  if  we  were 
wise,  we  should  care  infinitely  more  for  the  un 
folding  of  those  inward,  secret,  spiritual  powers 
by  which  alone  we  can  become  the  owners  of 
anything  that  is  worth  having.  Surely  God  is 
the  great  proprietor.  Yet  all  His  works  He  has 
given  away.  He  holds  no  title-deeds.  The  one 
thing  that  is  His,  is  the  perfect  understanding, 
the  perfect  joy,  the  perfect  love,  of  all  things 
that  He  has  made.  To  a  share  in  this  high 
ownership  He  welcomes  all  who  are  poor  in 
spirit.  This  is  the  earth  which  the  meek  in 
herit.  This  is  the  patrimony  of  the  saints  in 
light. 

"  Come,  laddie,"  I  said  to  my  comrade,  "  let 
us  go  home.  You  and  I  are  very  rich.  We 
own  the  mountains.  But  we  can  never  sell 
them,  and  we  don't  want  to." 


A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook 


"Perpetual  devotion  to  what  a  man  calls  his  business 
is  only  to  be  sustained  by  perpetual  neglect  of  many  other 
things.  And  it  is  not  by  any  means  certain  that  a  man's 
business  is  the  most  important  thing  he  has  to  do." — 
ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON:  An  Apology  for  Idlers. 

I.      A    CASUAL    INTRODUCTION 

ON  the  South  Shore  of  Long  Island,  all 
things  incline  to  a  natural  somnolence. 
There  are  no  ambitious  mountains,  no  braggart 
cliffs,  no  hasty  torrents,  no  bustling  waterfalls 
in  that  land, 

"In  which  it  seemeth  always  afternoon." 

The  salt  meadows  sleep  in  the  summer  sun ;  the 
farms  and  market-gardens  yield  a  placid  harvest 
to  a  race  of  singularly  unhurried  tillers  of  the 
soil;  the  low  hills  rise  with  gentle  slopes,  not 
caring  to  get  too  high  in  the  world,  only  far 
enough  to  catch  a  pleasant  glimpse  of  the  sea 
191 


192  A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook 

and  a  breath  of  fresh  air;  the  very  trees  grow 
leisurely,  as  if  they  felt  that  they  had  "  all  the 
time  there  is."  And  from  this  dreamy  land, 
close  as  it  lies  to  the  unresting  ocean,  the  tumult 
of  the  breakers  and  the  foam  of  ever-turning 
tides  are  shut  off  by  the  languid  lagoons  of  the 
Great  South  Bay  and  a  long  range  of  dunes, 
crested  with  wire-grass,  bay-bushes,  and  wild- 
roses. 

In  such  a  country  you  could  not  expect  a  little 
brook  to  be  noisy,  fussy,  energetic.  If  it  were 
not  lazy,  it  would  be  out  of  keeping. 

But  the  actual  and  undisguised  idleness  of  this 
particular  brook  was  another  affair,  and  one  in 
which  it  was  distinguished  among  its  fellows. 
For  almost  all  the  other  little  rivers  of  the 
South  Shore,  lazy  as  they  may  be  by  nature,  yet 
manage  to  do  some  kind  of  work  before  they 
finish  the  journey  from  their  crystal-clear 
springs  into  the  brackish  waters  of  the  bay. 
They  turn  the  wheels  of  sleepy  gristmills,  while 
the  miller  sits  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
underneath  the  willow-trees.  They  fill  reser 
voirs  out  of  which  great  steam-engines  pump  the 
water  to  quench  the  thirst  of  Brooklyn.  Even 
the  smaller  streams  tarry  long  enough  in  their 


A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook  193 

seaward  sauntering  to  irrigate  a  few  cranberry- 
bogs  and  so  provide  that  savoury  sauce  which 
makes  the  Long  Island  turkey  a  fitter  subject 
for  Thanksgiving. 

But  this  brook  of  which  I  speak  did  none  of 
these  useful  things.  It  was  absolutely  out  of 
business.  There  was  not  a  mill,  nor  a  reser 
voir,  nor  a  cranberry-bog,  on  all  its  course  of  a 
short  mile.  The  only  profitable  affair  it  ever 
undertook  was  to  fill  a  small  ice-pond  near  its 
entrance  into  the  Great  South  Bay.  You  could 
hardly  call  this  a  very  energetic  enterprise.  It 
amounted  to  little  more  than  a  good-natured 
consent  to  allow  itself  to  be  used  by  the  winter 
for  the  making  of  ice,  if  the  winter  happened  to 
be  cold  enough.  Even  this  passive  industry  came 
to  nothing;  for  the  water,  being  separated 
from  the  bay  only  by  a  short  tideway  under  a 
wooden  bridge  on  the  south  country  road,  was 
too  brackish  to  freeze  easily ;  and  the  ice,  being 
pervaded  with  weeds,  was  not  much  relished  by 
the  public.  So  the  wooden  ice-house,  innocent 
of  paint,  and  toned  by  the  weather  to  a  soft, 
sad-coloured  grey,  stood  like  an  improvised  ruin 
among  the  pine-trees  beside  the  pond. 

It  was  through  this  unharvested  ice-pond,  this 
7 


194  ^  Lazy,  Idle  Bfook 

fallow  field  of  water,  that  my  lady  Greygown 
and  I  entered  on  acquaintance  with  our  lazy, 
idle  brook.  We  had  a  house,  that  summer,  a  few 
miles  down  the  bay.  But  it  was  a  very  small 
house,  and  the  room  that  we  like  best  was  out  of 
doors.  So  we  spent  much  time  in  the  sail-boat, 
— by  name  "  The  Patience," — making  voyages 
of  exploration  into  watery  corners  and  by 
ways.  Sailing  past  the  wooden  bridge  one  day, 
when  a  strong  east  wind  had  made  a  very  low 
tide,  we  observed  the  water  flowing  out  beneath 
the  road  with  an  eddying  current.  We  were 
interested  to  discover  where  such  a  stream  came 
from.  But  the  sailboat  could  not  go  under  the 
bridge,  nor  even  make  a  landing  on  the  shore 
without  risk  of  getting  aground.  The  next  day 
we  came  back  in  a  rowboat  to  follow  the  clue  of 
curiosity.  The  tide  was  high  now,  and  we 
passed  with  the  reversed  current  under  the 
bridge,  almost  bumping  our  heads  against  the 
timbers.  Emerging  upon  the  pond,  we  rowed 
across  its  shallow,  weed-encumbered  waters,  and 
were  introduced  without  ceremony  to  one  of  the 
most  agreeable  brooks  that  we  had  ever  met. 

It  was  quite  broad  where  it  came  into  the 
pond, — a  hundred  feet  from  side  to  side, — bor- 


A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook  195 

dered  with  flags  and  rushes  and  feathery  mea 
dow  grasses.  The  real  channel  meandered  in 
sweeping  curves  from  bank  to  bank,  and  the 
water,  except  in  the  swifter  current,  was  rilled 
with  an  amazing  quantity  of  some  aquatic 
moss.  The  woods  came  straggling  clown  on 
either  shore.  There  were  fallen  trees  in  the 
stream  here  and  there.  On  one  of  the  points  an 
old  swamp-maple,  with  its  decrepit  branches  and 
its  leaves  already  touched  with  the  hectic  colours 
of  decay,  hung  far  out  over  the  water  which  was 
undermining  it,  looking  and  leaning  downward, 
like  an  aged  man  who  bends,  half-sadly  and  half- 
willingly,  towards  the  grave. 

But  for  the  most  part  the  brook  lay  wide  open 
to  the  sky,  and  the  tide,  rising  and  sinking  some 
what  irregularly  in  the  pond  below,  made  curious 
alternations  in  its  depth  and  in  the  swiftness  of 
its  current.  For  about  half  a  mile  we  navigated 
this  lazy  little  river,  and  then  we  found  that 
rowing  would  carry  us  no  farther,  for  we  came 
to  a  place  where  the  stream  issued  with  a  live 
lier  flood  from  an  archway  in  a  thicket. 

This  woodland  portal  was  not  more  than  four 
feet  wide,  and  the  branches  of  the  small  trees 
were  closely  interwoven  overhead.  We  shipped 


196  A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook 

the  oars  and  took  one  of  them  for  a  paddle. 
Stooping  down,  we  pushed  the  boat  through  the 
archway  and  found  ourselves  in  the  Fairy  Dell. 
It  was  a  long,  narrow  bower,  perhaps  four  hun 
dred  feet  from  end  to  end,  with  the  brook  danc 
ing  through  it  in  a  joyous,  musical  flow  over  a 
bed  of  clean  yellow  sand  and  white  pebbles. 
There  were  deep  places  in  the  curves  where  you 
could  hardly  touch  bottom  with  an  oar,  and 
shallow  places  in  the  straight  runs  where  the 
boat  would  barely  float.  Not  a  ray  of  unbroken 
sunlight  leaked  through  the  green  roof  of  this 
winding  corridor;  and  all  along  the  sides  there 
were  delicate  mosses  and  tall  ferns  and  wild- 
wood  flowers  that  love  the  shade. 

At  the  upper  end  of  the  bower  our  progress 
in  the  boat  was  barred  by  a  low  bridge,  on  a 
forgotten  road  that  wound  through  the  pine- 
woods.  Here  I  left  my  lady  Greygown,  seated 
on  the  shady  corner  of  the  bridge  with  a  book, 
swinging  her  feet  over  the  stream,  while  I  set 
out  to  explore  its  further  course.  Above  the 
wood-road  there  were  no  more  fairy  dells,  nor 
easy-going  estuaries.  The  water  came  down 
through  the  most  complicated  piece  of  under 
brush  that  I  have  ever  encountered.  Alders  and 


A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook  197 

swamp  maples  and  pussy-willows  and  grey 
birches  grew  together  in  a  wild  confusion. 
Blackberry  bushes  and  fox-grapes  and  cat-briers 
trailed  and  twisted  themselves  in  an  incredible 
tangle.  There  was  only  one  way  to  advance, 
and  that  was  to  wade  in  the  middle  of  the  brook, 
stooping  low,  lifting  up  the  pendulous  alder- 
branches,  threading  a  tortuous  course,  now 
under  and  now  over  the  innumerable  obstacles, 
as  a  darning-needle  is  pushed  in  and  out  through 
the  yarn  of  a  woollen  stocking. 

It  was  dark  and  lonely  in  that  difficult  pas 
sage.  The  brook  divided  into  many  channels, 
turning  this  way  and  that  way,  as  if  it  were  lost 
in  the  woods.  There  were  huge  clumps  of 
Osmunda  regalis  spreading  their  fronds  in  tropi 
cal  profusion.  Mouldering  logs  were  covered 
with  moss.  The  water  gurgled  slowly  into  deep 
corners  under  the  banks.  Catbirds  and  blue 
jays  fluttered  screaming  from  the  thickets. 
Cotton-tailed  rabbits  darted  away,  showing  the 
white  flag  of  fear.  Once  I  thought  I  saw  the 
fuscous  gleam  of  a  red  fox  stealing  silently 
through  the  brush.  It  would  have  been  no  sur 
prise  to  hear  the  bark  of  a  racoon,  or  see  the 
eyes  of  a  wildcat  gleaming  through  the  leaves. 


A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook 


For  more  than  an  hour  I  was  pushing  my  way 
through  this  miniature  wilderness  of  half  a 
mile;  and  then  I  emerged  suddenly,  to  find  my 
self  face  to  face  with — a  railroad  embankment 
and  the  afternoon  express,  with  its  parlour-cars, 
thundering  down  to  Southampton! 

It  was  a  strange  and  startling  contrast.  The 
explorer's  joy,  the  sense  of  adventure,  the  feel 
ing  of  wildness  and  freedom,  withered  and 
crumpled  somewhat  preposterously  at  the  sight 
of  the  parlour-cars.  My  scratched  hands  and 
wet  boots  and  torn  coat  seemed  unkempt  and  dis 
reputable.  Perhaps  some  of  the  well-dressed 
people  looking  out  at  the  windows  of  the  train 
were  the  friends  with  whom  we  were  to  dine 
on  Saturday.  Bateche!  What  would  they  say 
to  such  a  costume  as  mine?  What  did  I  care 
what  they  said ! 

But,  all  the  same,  it  was  a  shock,  a  disenchant 
ment,  to  find  that  civilisation,  with  all  its  ab 
surdities  and  conventionalities,  was  so  threaten 
ingly  close  to  my  new-found  wilderness.  My 
first  enthusiasm  was  not  a  little  chilled  as  I 
walked  back,  along  an  open  woodland  path,  to 
the  bridge  where  Greygown  was  placidly  read 
ing.  Reading,  I  say,  though  her  book  was 


A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook  199 

closed,  and  her  brown  eyes  were  wandering  over 
the  green  leaves  of  the  thicket,  and  the  white 
clouds  drifting,  drifting  lazily  across  the  blue 
deep  of  the  sky. 

II.       A   BETTER  ACQUAINTANCE 

On  the  voyage  home,  she  gently  talked  me  out 
of  my  disappointment,  and  into  a  wiser  frame  of 
mind. 

It  was  a  surprise,  of  course,  she  admitted,  to 
find  that  our  wilderness  was  so  little,  and  to 
discover  the  trail  of  a  parlour-car  on  the  edge  of 
Paradise.  But  why  not  turn  the  surprise 
around,  and  make  it  pleasant  instead  of  disagree 
able?  Why  not  look  at  the  contrast  from  the 
side  that  we  liked  best? 

It  was  not  necessary  that  everybody  should 
take  the  same  view  of  life  that  pleased  us.  The 
world  would  not  get  on  very  well  without  people 
who  preferred  parlour-cars  to  canoes,  and 
patent-leather  shoes  to  India-rubber  boots,  and 
ten-course  dinners  to  picnics  in  the  woods.  These 
good  people  were  unconsciously  toiling  at  the 
hard  and  necessary  work  of  life  in  order  that 
we,  of  the  chosen  and  fortunate  few,  should  be 
at  liberty  to  enjoy  the.  best  things  in  the  world. 


20O  A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook 

Why  should  we  neglect  our  opportunities, 
which  were  also  our  real  duties?  The  nervous 
disease  of  civilisation  might  prevail  all  around 
us,  but  that  ought  not  to  destroy  our  grateful 
enjoyment  of  the  lucid  intervals  that  were 
granted  to  us  by  a  merciful  Providence. 

Why  should  we  not  take  this  little  untamed 
brook,  running  its  humble  course  through  the 
borders  of  civilised  life  and  midway  between 
two  flourishing  summer  resorts, — a  brook  with 
out  a  single  house  or  a  cultivated  field  on  its 
banks,  as  free  and  beautiful  and  secluded  as  if 
it  flowed  through  miles  of  trackless  forest, — 
why  not  take  this  brook  as  a  sign  that  the  order 
ing  of  the  universe  had  a  "  good  intention  "  even 
for  inveterate  idlers,  and  that  the  great  Arranger 
of  the  world  felt  some  kindness  for  such  gipsy- 
hearts  as  ours?  What  law,  human  or  divine, 
was  there  to  prevent  us  from  making  this  stream 
our  symbol  of  deliverance  from  the  conventional 
and  commonplace,  our  guide  to  liberty  and  a 
quiet  mind? 

So  reasoned  Greygown  with  her 

"  most  silver  How 
Of  subtle-paced  counsel  in  distress." 


A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook  201 

And,  according  to  her  word,  so  did  we.  That 
lazy,  idle  brook  became  to  us  one  of  the  best 
of  friends ;  the  pathfinder  of  happiness  on  many 
a  bright  summer  day;  and,  through  long  vaca 
tions,  the  faithful  encourager  of  indolence. 

Indolence  in  the  proper  sense  of  the  word, 
you  understand.  The  meaning  which  is  com 
monly  given  to  it,  as  Archbishop  Trench 
pointed  out  in  his  suggestive  book  about  Words 
and  Their  Uses,  is  altogether  false.  To  speak 
of  indolence  as  if  it  were  a  vice  is  just  a  great 
big  verbal  slander. 

Indolence  is  a  virtue.  It  comes  from  two 
Latin  words,  which  mean  freedom  from  anxiety 
or  grief.  And  that  is  a  wholesome  state  of 
mind.  There  are  times  and  seasons  when  it 
is  even  a  pious  and  blessed  state  of  mind.  Not 
to  be  in  a  hurry;  not  to  be  ambitious  or  jealous 
or  resentful;  not  to  feel  envious  of  anybody; 
not  to  fret  about  to-day  nor  worry  about  to 
morrow, — that  is  the  way  we  ought  all  to  feel 
at  some  time  in  our  lives;  and  that  is  the  kind 
of  indolence  in  which  our  brook  faithfully  en 
couraged  us. 

'Tis  an  age  in  which  such  encouragement  is 
greatly  needed.  We  have  fallen  so  much  into 

7* 


2O2  A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook 

the  habit  of  being  always  busy  that  we  know  not 
how  nor  when  to  break  it  off  with  firmness. 
Our  business  tags  after  us  into  the  midst  of  our 
pleasures,  and  we  are  ill  at  ease  beyond  reach  of 
the  telegraph  and  the  daily  newspaper.  We  agi 
tate  ourselves  amazingly  about  a  multitude  of 
affairs, — the  politics  of  Europe,  the  state  of  the 
weather  all  around  the  globe,  the  marriages  and 
festivities  of  very  rich  people,  and  the  latest 
novelties  in  crime,  none  of  which  are  of  vital 
interest  to  us.  The  more  earnest  souls  among 
us  are  cultivating  a  vicious  tendency  to  Summer 
Schools,  and  Seaside  Institutes  of  Philosophy, 
and  Mountaintop  Seminaries  of  Modern  Lan 
guages. 

We  toil  assiduously  to  cram  something  more 
into  those  scrap-bags  of  knowledge  which  we 
fondly  call  our  minds.  Seldom  do  we  rest 
tranquil  long  enough  to  find  out  whether  there  is 
anything  in  them  already  that  is  of  real  value, — 
any  native  feeling,  any  original  thought,  which 
would  like  to  come  out  and  sun  itself  for  a 
while  in  quiet. 

For  my  part,  I  am  sure  that  I  stand  more  in 
need  of  a  deeper  sense  of  contentment  with  life 
than  of  a  knowledge  of  the  Bulgarian  tongue, 


A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook  203 

and  that  all  the  paradoxes  of  Hegel  would  not  do 
me  so  much  good  as  one  hour  of  vital  sympathy 
with  the  careless  play  of  children.  The  Mar 
quis  du  Paty  de  1'Huitre  may  espouse  the  daugh 
ter  and  heiress  of  the  Honourable  James  Bulger 
with  all  imaginable  pomp,  if  he  will.  £a  ne 
m'intrigue  point  du  tout.  I  would  rather 
stretch  myself  out  on  the  grass  and  watch  yon 
der  pair  of  kingbirds  carrying  luscious  flies  to 
their  young  ones  in  the  nest,  or  chasing  away 
the  marauding  crow  with  shrill  cries  of 
anger. 

What  a  pretty  battle  it  is,  and  in  a  good  cause, 
too!  Waste  no  pity  on  that  big  black  ruffian. 
He  is  a  villain  and  a  thief,  an  egg-stealer,  an 
ogre,  a  devourer  of  unfledged  innocents.  The 
kingbirds  are  not  afraid  of  him,  knowing  that  he 
is  a  coward  at  heart.  They  fly  upon  him,  now 
from  below,  now  from  above.  They  buffet  him 
from  one  side  and  from  the  other.  They  circle 
round  him  like  a  pair  of  swift  gunboats  round 
an  antiquated  man-of-war.  They  even  perch 
upon  his  back  and  dash  their  beaks  into  his  neck 
and  pluck  feathers  from  his  piratical  plumage. 
At  last  his  lumbering  flight  has  carried  him  far 
enough  away,  and  the  brave  little  defenders  fly 


204  A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook 

back  to  the  nest,  poising  above  it  on  quivering 
wings  for  a  moment,  then  dipping  down  swiftly 
in  pursuit  of  some  passing  insect.  The  war  is 
over.  Courage  has  had  its  turn.  Now  tender 
ness  comes  into  play.  The  young  birds,  all 
ignorant  of  the  passing  danger,  but  always  con 
scious  of  an  insatiable  hunger,  are  uttering  loud 
remonstrances  and  plaintive  demands  for  food. 
Domestic  life  begins  again,  and  they  that  sow 
not,  neither  gather  into  barns,  are  fed. 

Do  you  suppose  that  this  wondrous  stage  of 
earth  was  set,  and  all  the  myriad  actors  on  it 
taught  to  play  their  parts,  without  a  spectator  in 
view?  Do  you  think  that  there  is  anything 
better  for  you  and  me  to  do,  now  and  then,  than 
to  sit  down  quietly  in  a  humble  seat,  and  watch 
a  few  scenes  in  the  drama?  Has  it  not  some 
thing  to  say  to  us,  and  do  we  not  understand  it 
best  when  we  have  a  peaceful  heart  and  free 
from  dolour?  That  is  what  in-dolcnce  means, 
and  there  are  no  better  teachers  of  it  than  the 
light-hearted  birds  and  untoiling  flowers,  com 
mended  by  the  wisest  of  all  masters  to  our  con 
sideration;  nor  can  we  find  a  more  pleasant 


A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook  205 

pedagogue  to  lead  us  to  their  school  than  a  small, 
merry  brook. 

And  this  was  what  our  chosen  stream  did  for 
us.  It  was  always  luring  us  away  from  an 
artificial  life  into  restful  companionship  with 
nature. 

Suppose,  for  example,  we  found  ourselves 
growing  a  bit  dissatisfied  with  the  domestic  ar 
rangement  of  our  little  cottage,  and  coveting  the 
splendours  of  a  grander  establishment.  An 
afternoon  on  the  brook  was  a  good  cure  for 
that  folly.  Or  suppose  a  day  came  when  there 
was  an  imminent  prospect  of  many  formal  calls. 
We  had  an  important  engagement  up  the  brook ; 
and  while  we  kept  it  we  could  think  with  satis 
faction  of  the  joy  of  our  callers  when  they  dis 
covered  that  they  could  discharge  their  whole 
duty  with  a  piece  of  pasteboard.  This  was  an 
altruistic  pleasure.  Or  suppose  that  a  few 
friends  were  coming  to  supper,  and  there  were 
no  flowers  for  the  supper-table.  We  could 
easily  have  bought  them  in  the  village.  But  it  was 
far  more  to  our  liking  to  take  the  children  up  the 
brook,  and  come  back  with  great  bunches  of  wild 
white  honeysuckle  and  blue  flag,  or  posies  of 
arrow-heads  and  cardinal-flowers.  Or  suppose 


206  A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook 

that  I  was  very  unwisely  and  reluctantly  labour 
ing  at  some  serious  piece  of  literary  work,  pro 
mised  for  the  next  number  of  The  Scribbler's 
Review,  and  suppose  that  in  the  midst  of  this 
labour  the  sad  news  came  to  me  that  the  fisher 
man  had  forgotten  to  leave  any  fish  at  our  cot 
tage  that  morning.  Should  my  innocent  babes 
and  my  devoted  wife  be  left  to  perish  of  starva 
tion  while  I  continued  my  poetical  comparison 
of  the  two  Williams,  Shakespeare  and  Watson  ? 
Inhuman  selfishness!  Of  course  it  was  my 
plain  duty  to  sacrifice  my  inclinations,  and  get 
my  fly-rod,  and  row  away  across  the  bay,  with 
a  deceptive  appearance  of  cheerfulness,  to  catch 
a  basket  of  trout  in 

III.       THE   SECRETS   OF  INTIMACY 

There!  I  came  within  eight  letters  of  telling 
the  name  of  the  brook,  a  thing  that  I  am  firmly 
resolved  not  to  do.  If  it  were  an  ordinary  fish- 
less  little  river,  or  even  a  stream  with  nothing 
better  than  grass-pike  and  sunfish  in  it,  you 
should  have  the  name  and  welcome.  But  when 
a  brook  contains  speckled  trout,  and  when  their 
presence  is  known  to  a  very  few  persons  who 


A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook  207 

guard  the  secret  as  the  dragon  guarded  the 
golden  apples  of  the  Hesperides,  and  when  the 
size  of  the  trout  is  large  beyond  the  dreams  of 
hope, — well,  when  did  you  know  a  true  angler 
who  would  willingly  give  away  the  name  of  such 
a  brook  as  that  ?  You  may  find  an  encourager  of 
indolence  in  almost  any  stream  of  the  South 
Side,  and  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  brook.  But 
if  you  want  to  catch  trout  in  mine  you  must  dis 
cover  it  for  yourself,  or  perhaps  go  with  me 
some  day,  and  solemnly  swear  secrecy. 

That  was  the  way  in  which  the  freedom  of  the 
stream  was  conferred  upon  me.  There  was  a 
small  boy  in  the  village,  the  son  of  rich  but 
respectable  parents,  and  an  inveterate  all-round 
sportsman,  aged  fourteen  years,  with  whom  I 
had  formed  a  close  intimacy.  I  was  telling 
him  about  the  pleasure  of  exploring  the  idle 
brook,  and  expressing  the  opinion  that  in  bygone 
days  (in  that  mythical  "  forty  years  ago  "  when 
all  fishing  was  good),  there  must  have  been 
trout  in  it.  A  certain  look  came  over  the  boy's 
face.  He  gazed  at  me  solemnly,  as  if  he  were 
searching  the  inmost  depths  of  my  character 
before  he  spoke. 

"  Say,  do  you  want  to  know  something?  " 


208  A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook 

I  assured  him  that  an  increase  of  knowledge 
was  the  chief  aim  of  my  life. 

"  Do  you  promise  you  won't  tell?  " 

I  expressed  my  readiness  to  be  bound  to 
silence  by  the  most  awful  pledge  that  the  law 
would  sanction. 

"  Wish  you  may  die  ?  " 

I  not  only  wished  that  I  might  die,  but  was 
perfectly  certain  that  I  would  die. 

"  Well,  what's  the  matter  with  catching  trout 
in  that  brook  now?  Do  you  want  to  go  with 
me  next  Saturday?  I  saw  four  or  five  bully 
ones  last  week,  and  got  three." 

On  the  appointed  day  we  made  the  voyage, 
landed  at  the  upper  bridge,  walked  around  by 
the  woodpath  to  the  railroad  embankment,  and 
began  to  worm  our  way  down  through  the 
tangled  wilderness.  Fly-fishing,  of  course,  was 
out  of  the  question.  The  only  possible  method 
of  angling  was  to  let  the  line,  baited  with  a  juicy 
"  garden  hackle,"  drift  down  the  current  as  far 
as  possible  before  you,  under  the  alder-branches 
and  the  cat-briers,  into  the  holes  and  corners  of 
the  stream.  Then,  if  there  came  a  gentle  tug 
on  the  rod,  you  must  strike,  to  one  side  or  the 
other,  as  the  branches  might  allow,  and  trust 


A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook  209 

wholly  to  luck  for  a  chance  to  play  the  fish. 
Many  a  trout  we  lost  that  day, — the  largest 
ones,  of  course, — and  many  a  hook  was  em 
bedded  in  a  sunken  log,  or  hopelessly  entwined 
among  the  boughs  overhead.  But  when  we 
came  out  at  the  bridge,  very  wet  and  dishevelled, 
we  had  seven  pretty  fish,  the  heaviest  about  half 
a  pound.  The  Fairy  Dell  yielded  a  brace  of 
smaller  ones,  and  altogether  we  were  reasonably 
happy  as  we  took  up  the  oars  and  pushed  out 
upon  the  open  stream. 

But  if  there  were  fish  above,  why  should  there 
not  be  fish  below?  It  was  about  sunset,  the 
angler's  golden  hour.  We  were  already  com 
mitted  to  the  crime  of  being  late  for  supper.  It 
would  add  little  to  our  guilt  and  much  to  our 
pleasure  to  drift  slowly  down  the  middle  of  the 
brook  and  cast  the  artful  fly  in  the  deeper  cor 
ners  on  either  shore.  So  I  took  off  the  vulgar 
bait-hook  and  put  on  a  delicate  leader  with  a 
Queen  of  the  Water  for  a  tail-fly  and  a  Yellow 
Sally  for  a  dropper, — innocent  little  confections 
of  feather  and  tinsel,  dressed  on  the  tiniest 
hooks,  and  calculated  to  tempt  the  appetite  or  the 
curiosity  of  the  most  capricious  trout. 

For  a  long  time  the  whipping  of  the  water 


2io  A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook 

produced  no  result,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  dainty 
style  of  angling  were  destined  to  prove  less  pro 
fitable  than  plain  fishing  with  a  worm.  But 
presently  we  came  to  an  elbow  of  the  brook, 
just  above  the  estuary,  where  there  was  quite  a 
stretch  of  clear  water  along  the  lower  side,  with 
two  half -sunken  logs  sticking  out  from  the  bank, 
against  which  the  current  had  drifted  a  broad 
raft  of  weeds.  I  made  a  long  cast,  and  sent  the 
tail-fly  close  to  the  edge  of  the  weeds.  There 
was  a  swelling  ripple  on  the  surface  of  the  water, 
and  a  noble  fish  darted  from  under  the  logs, 
dashed  at  the  fly,  missed  it,  and  whirled  back 
to  his  shelter. 

"  Gee !  "  said  the  boy,  "  that  was  a  whacker ! 
He  made  a  wake  like  a  steamboat." 

It  was  a  moment  for  serious  thought.  What 
was  best  to  be  done  with  that  fish  ?  Leave  him 
to  settle  down  for  the  night  and  come  back  after 
him  another  day  ?  Or  try  another  cast  for  him 
at  once?  A  fish  on  Saturday  evening  is  worth 
two  on  Monday  morning.  I  changed  the  Queen 
of  the  Water  for  a  Royal  Coachman  tied  on  a 
number  fourteen  hook, — white  wings,  peacock 
body  with  a  belt  of  crimson  silk, — and  sent  it 
cut  again,  a  foot  farther  up  the  stream  and  a 


A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook  211 

shade  closer  to  the  weeds.  As  it  settled  on  the 
water,  there  was  a  flash  of  gold  from  the  shadow 
beneath  the  logs,  and  a  quick  turn  of  the  wrist 
made  the  tiny  hook  fast  in  the  fish.  He  fought 
wildly  to  get  back  to  the  shelter  of  his  logs,  but 
the  four-ounce  rod  had  spring  enough  in  it  to 
hold  him  firmly  away  from  that  dangerous  re 
treat.  Then  he  splurged  up  and  down  the  open 
water,  and  made  fierce  dashes  among  the  grassy 
shallows,  and  seemed  about  to  escape  a  dozen 
times.  But  at  last  his  force  was  played  out ;  he 
came  slowly  towards  the  boat,  turning  on  his 
side,  and  I  netted  him  in  my  hat. 

"  Bully  for  us,"  said  the  boy;  "  we  got  him! 
What  a  dandy !  " 

It  was  indeed  one  of  the  handsomest  fish  that 
I  have  ever  taken  on  the  South  Side, — just 
short  of  two  pounds  and  a  quarter, — small  head, 
broad  tail,  and  well-rounded  sides  coloured  with 
orange  and  blue  and  gold  and  red.  A  pair  of 
the  same  kind,  one  weighing  two  pounds  and 
the  other  a  pound  and  three-quarters,  were 
taken  by  careful  fishing  down  the  lower  end  of 
the  pool,  and  then  we  rowed  home  through  the 
dusk,  pleasantly  convinced  that  there  is  no  virtue 
more  certainly  rewarded  than  the  patience  of 


212  A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook 

anglers,  and  entirely  willing  to  put  up  with  a 
cold  supper  and  a  mild  reproof  for  the  sake  of 
sport. 

Of  course  we  could  not  resist  the  temptation 
to  show  those  fish  to  the  neighbours.  But, 
equally  of  course,  we  evaded  the  request  to  give 
precise  information  as  to  the  precise  place  where 
they  were  caught.  Indeed,  I  fear  that  there 
must  have  been  something  confused  in  our 
description  of  where  we  had  been  on  that  after 
noon.  Our  carefully  selected  language  may 
have  been  open  to  misunderstanding.  At  all 
events,  the  next  day,  which  was  the  Sabbath, 
there  was  a  row  of  eager  but  unprincipled  ang 
lers  sitting  on  a  bridge  over  another  stream,  and 
fishing  for  trout  with  worms  and  large  expecta 
tions,  but  without  visible  results. 

The  boy  and  I  agreed  that  if  this  did  not  teach 
a  good  moral  lesson  it  was  not  our  fault. 

I  obtained  the  boy's  consent  to  admit  the  part 
ner  of  my  life's  joy  and  two  of  our  children  to 
the  secret  of  the  brook,  and  thereafter,  when  we 
visited  it,  we  took  the  fly-rod  with  us.  If  by 
chance  another  boat  passed  us  in  the  estuary, 
we  were  never  fishing,  but  only  gathering 
flowers,  or  going  for  a  picnic,  or  taking  photo- 


A  Lazy,  Idle  Brook  213 

graphs.  But  when  the  uninitiated  ones  had 
passed  by,  we  would  get  out  the  rod  again,  and 
try  a  few  more  casts. 

One  day  in  particular  I  remember,  when 
Greygown  and  little  Teddy  were  my  compan 
ions.  We  really  had  no  hopes  of  angling,  for 
the  hour  was  mid-noon,  and  the  day  was  warm 
and  still.  But  suddenly  the  trout,  by  one  of 
those  unaccountable  freaks  which  make  their 
disposition  so  interesting  and  attractive,  began 
to  rise  all  about  us  in  a  bend  of  the  stream. 

"Look!"  said  Teddy;  "wherever  you  see 
one  of  those  big  smiles  on  the  water,  I  believe 
there's  a  fish!  " 

Fortunately  the  rod  was  at  hand.  Greygown 
and  Teddy  managed  the  boat  and  the  landing-net 
with  consummate  skill.  We  landed  no  fewer  than 
a  dozen  beautiful  fish  at  that  most  unlikely  hour 
and  then  solemnly  shook  hands  all  around. 

There  is  a  peculiar  pleasure  in  doing  a  thing 
like  this,  catching  trout  in  a  place  where  nobody 
thinks  of  looking  for  them,  and  at  an  hour  when 
everybody  believes  they  cannot  be  caught.  It 
is  more  fun  to  take  one  good  fish  out  of  an  old, 
fished-out  stream,  near  at  hand  to  the  village, 
than  to  fill  a  basket  from  some  far-famed  and 


214  -A  Lazy,  I  dig  Brook 

well-stocked  water.  It  is  the  unexpected  touch 
that  tickles  our  sense  of  pleasure.  While  life 
lasts,  we  are  always  hoping  for  it  and  expecting 
it.  There  is  no  country  so  civilised,  no  exist 
ence  so  humdrum,  that  there  is  not  room  enough 
in  it  somewhere  for  a  lazy,  idle  brook,  an  en- 
courager  of  indolence,  with  hope  of  happy 
surprises. 


The  Open  Fire 

"It  is  a  vulgar  notion  that  a  fire  is  only  for  heat.  A 
chief  value  of  it  is,  however,  to  look  at.  And  it  is  never 
twice  the  same." — CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER:  Backlog 
Studies. 

I.      LIGHTING  UP 

MAN  is  the  animal  that  has  made  friends 
with  the  fire. 

All  the  other  creatures,  in  their  natural  state, 
are  afraid  of  it.  They  look  upon  it  with  wonder 
and  dismay.  It  fascinates  them,  sometimes, 
with  its  glittering  eyes  in  the  night.  The  squir 
rels  and  the  hares  come  pattering  softly  towards 
it  through  the  underbrush  around  the  new  camp. 
The  fascinated  deer  stares  into  the  blaze  of  the 
jack-light  while  the  hunter's  canoe  creeps 
through  the  lily-pads.  But  the  charm  that  mas 
ters  them  is  one  of  dread,  not  of  love.  It  is 
the  witchcraft  of  the  serpent's  lambent  look. 
When  they  know  what  it  means,  when  the  heat 
215 


216  The  Open  Fire 

of  the  fire  touches  them  or  even  when  its  smell 
comes  clearly  to  their  most  delicate  sense,  they 
recognise  it  as  their  enemy,  the  Wild  Huntsman 
whose  red  hounds  can  follow,  follow  for  days 
without  wearying,  growing  stronger  and  more 
furious  with  every  turn  of  the  chase.  Let  but 
a  trail  of  smoke  drift  down  the  wind  across  the 
forest,  and  all  the  game  for  miles  and  miles  will 
catch  the  signal  for  fear  and  flight. 

Many  of  the  animals  have  learned  how  to 
make  houses  for  themselves.  The  cabane  of  the 
beaver  is  a  wonder  of  neatness  and  comfort, 
much  preferable  to  the  wigwam  of  his  Indian 
hunter.  The  muskrat  knows  how  thick  and 
high  to  build  the  dome  of  his  waterside  cottage, 
in  order  to  protect  himself  against  the  frost  of 
the  coming  winter  and  the  floods  of  the  follow 
ing  spring.  The  woodchuck's  house  has  two  or 
three  doors;  and  the  squirrel's  dwelling  is  pro 
vided  with  a  good  bed  and  a  convenient  store 
house  for  nuts  and  acorns.  The  sportive  otters 
have  a  toboggan  slide  in  front  of  their  residence ; 
and  the  moose  in  winter  make  a  "  yard,"  where 
they  can  take  exercise  comfortably  and  find  shel 
ter  for  sleep.  But  there  is  one  thing  lacking  in 
all  these  various  dwellings, — a*fireplace. 


The  Open  Fire  217 

Man  is  the  only  creature  that  dares  to  light  a 
fire  and  to  live  with  it.  The  reason  ?  Because 
he  alone  has  learned  how  to  put  it  out. 

It  is  true  that  two  of  his  humbler  friends 
have  been  converted  to  fire-worship.  The  dog 
and  the  cat,  being  half -humanised,  have  begun 
to  love  the  fire.  I  suppose  that  a  cat  seldom 
comes  so  near  to  feeling  a  true  sense  of  affec 
tion  as  when  she  has  finished  her  saucer  of 
bread  and  milk,  and  stretched  herself  luxuri- 
.ously  underneath  the  kitchen  stove,  while  her 
faithful  mistress  washes  up  the  dishes.  As  for 
a  dog,  I  am  sure  that  his  admiring  love  for 
his  master  is  never  greater  than  when  they  come 
in  together  from  the  hunt,  wet  and  tired,  and  the 
man  gathers  a  pile  of  wood  in  front  of  the  tent, 
touches  it  with  a  tiny  magic  wand,  and  suddenly 
the  clear,  consoling  flame  springs  up,  saying 
cheerfully,  "  Here  we  are,  at  home  in  the  forest ; 
come  into  the  warmth;  rest,  and  eat,  and  sleep." 
When  the  weary,  shivering  dog  sees  this  mir 
acle,  he  knows  that  his  master  is  a  great  man  and 
a  lord  of  things. 

After  all,  that  is  the  only  real  open  fire.  Wood 
is  the  fuel  for  it.  Out-of-doors  is  the  place  for 
it.  A  furnace  is  an  underground  prison  for  a 


218  The  Open  Fire 

toiling  slave.  A  stove  is  a  cage  for  a  tame  bird. 
Even  a  broad  hearthstone  and  a  pair  of  glitter 
ing  andirons — the  best  ornament  of  a  room — 
must  be  accepted  as  an  imitation  of  the  real 
thing.  The  veritable  open  fire  is  built  in  the 
open,  with  the  whole  earth  for  a  fireplace  and 
the  sky  for  a  chimney. 

To  start  a  fire  in  the  open  is  by  no  means  as 
easy  as  it  looks.  It  is  one  of  those  simple  tricks 
that  everyone  thinks  he  can  perform  until  he 
tries  it. 

To  do  it  without  trying, — accidentally  and 
unwillingly, — that,  of  course,  is  a  thing  for 
which  any  fool  is  fit.  You  knock  out  the  ashes 
from  your  pipe  on  a  fallen  log ;  you  toss  the  end 
of  a  match  into  a  patch  of  grass,  green  on  top, 
but  dry  as  punk  underneath ;  you  scatter  the  dead 
brands  of  an  old  fire  among  the  moss, — a  con 
flagration  is  under  way  before  you  know  it. 

A  fire  in  the  woods  is  one  thing;  a  comfort 
and  a  joy.  Fire  in  the  woods  is  another  thing; 
a  terror,  an  uncontrollable  fury,  a  burning 
shame. 

But  the  lighting  up  of  a  proper  fire,  approach 
able,  serviceable,  docile,  is  a  work  of  intelli 
gence,  If,  perhaps,  you  have  to  do  it  in  the 


The  Open  Fire  219 

rain,  with  a  single  match,  it  requires  no  little  art 
and  skill. 

There  is  plenty  of  wood  everywhere,  but  not 
a  bit  to  burn.  The  fallen  trees  are  waterlogged. 
The  dead  leaves  are  as  damp  as  grief.  The 
charred  sticks  that  you  find  in  an  old  fireplace 
are  absolutely  incombustible.  Do  not  trust  the 
handful  of  withered  twigs  and  branches  that 
you  gather  from  the  spruce-trees.  They  seem 
dry,  but  they  are  little  better  for  your  purpose 
than  so  much  asbestos.  You  make  a  pile  of 
them  in  some  apparently  suitable  hollow,  and 
lay  a  few  larger  sticks  on  top.  Then  you  hastily 
scratch  your  solitary  match  on  the  seat  of  your 
trousers  and  thrust  it  into  the  pile  of  twigs. 
What  happens?  The  wind  whirls  around  in 
your  stupid  little  hollow,  and  the  blue  flame 
of  the  sulphur  spurts  and  sputters  for  an  instant, 
and  then  goes  out.  Or  perhaps  there  is  a  mo 
ment  of  stillness;  the  match  flares  up  bravely; 
the  nearest  twigs  catch  fire,  crackling  and  spark 
ling;  you  hurriedly  lay  on  more  sticks;  but  the 
fire  deliberately  dodges  them,  creeps  to  the  corner 
of  the  pile  where  the  twigs  are  fewest  and 
dampest,  snaps  feebly  a  few  times,  and  expires 


22O  The  Open  Fire 

in  smoke.     Now  where  are  you?     How  far  is 
it  to  the  nearest  match? 

If  you  are  wise,  you  will  always  make  your 
fire  before  you  light  it.  Time  is  never  saved 
by  doing  a  thing  badly. 

II.      THE   CAMP   FIRE 

In  the  making  of  fires  there  is  as  much  differ 
ence  as  in  the  building  of  houses.  Everything 
depends  upon  the  purpose  that  you  have  in  view. 
There  is  the  camp-fire,  and  the  cooking-fire,  and 
the  smudge-fire,  and  the  little  friendship-fire, — 
not  to  speak  of  other  minor  varieties.  Each  of 
these  has  its  own  proper  style  of  architecture, 
and  to  mix  them  is  false  art  and  poor  economy. 

The  object  of  the  camp-fire  is  to  give  heat, 
and  incidentally  light,  to  your  tent  or  shanty. 
You  can  hardly  build  this  kind  of  a  fire  unless 
you  have  a  good  axe  and  know  how  to  chop.  For 
the  first  thing  that  you  need  is  a  solid  backlog, 
the  thicker  the  better,  to  hold  the  heat  and  reflect 
it  into  the  tent.  This  log  must  not  be  too  dry, 
or  it  will  burn  out  quickly.  Neither  must  it  be 
too  damp,  else  it  will  smoulder  and  discourage 
the  fire.  The  best  wood  for  it  is  the  body  of  a 


The  Open  Fire  221 

yellow  birch,  and,  next  to  that,  a  green  balsam. 
It  should  be  five  or  six  feet  long,  and  at  least 
two  and  a  half  feet  in  diameter.  If  you  cannot 
find  a  tree  thick  enough,  cut  two  or  three  lengths 
of  a  smaller  one;  lay  the  thickest  log  on  the 
ground  first,  about  ten  or  twelve  feet  in  front  of 
the  tent ;  drive  two  strong  stakes  behind  it,  slant 
ing  a  little  backward ;  and  lay  the  other  logs  on 
top  of  the  first,  resting  against  the  stakes. 

Now  you  are  ready  for  the  hand-chunks,  or 
andirons.  These  are  shorter  sticks  of  wood, 
eight  or  ten  inches  thick,  laid  at  right  angles  to 
the  backlog,  four  or  five  feet  apart.  Across 
these  you  are  to  build  up  the  firewood  proper. 

Use  a  dry  spruce-tree,  not  one  that  has  fallen, 
but  one  that  is  dead  and  still  standing,  if  you 
want  a  lively,  snapping  fire.  Use  a  hard  maple 
or  a  hickory  if  you  want  a  fire  that  will  burn 
steadily  and  make  few  sparks.  But  if  you  like 
a  fire  to  blaze  up  at  first  with  a  splendid  flame, 
and  then  burn  on  with  an  enduring  heat  far  into 
the  night,  a  young  white  birch  with  the  bark 
on  is  the  tree  to  choose.  Six  or  eight  round 
sticks  of  this  laid  across  the  hand-chunks,  with 
perhaps  a  few  quarterings  of  a  larger  tree,  will 
make  a  glorious  fire. 


222  The  Open  Fire 

But  before  you  put  these  on,  you  must  be 
ready  to  light  up.  A  few  splinters  of  dry  spruce 
or  pine  or  balsam,  stood  endwise  against  the 
backlog,  or,  better  still,  piled  up  in  a  pyramid 
between  the  hand-chunks ;  a  few  strips  of  birch- 
bark;  and  one  good  match, — these  are  all  that 
you  want.  But  be  sure  that  your  match  is  a 
good  one.  It  is  better  to  see  to  this  before  you 
go  into  the  brush.  Your  comfort,  even  your 
life,  may  depend  on  it. 

"  Avec  ces  allumettes-la"  said  my  guide  at 
Lac  St.  Jean  one  day,  as  he  vainly  tried  to  light 
his  pipe  with  a  box  of  parlour  matches  from  the 
hotel, — "  avec  ces  gnognottes  d'allumettes  on 
pourra  mourir  au  bois! " 

In  the  woods,  the  old-fashioned  brimstone 
match  of  our  grandfathers — the  match  with  a 
brown  head  and  a  stout  stick  and  a  dreadful 
smell — is  the  best.  But  if  you  have  only  one, 
do  not  trust  even  that  to  light  your  fire  directly. 
Use  it  first  to  touch  off  a  roll  of  birch-bark  which 
you  hold  in  your  hand.  Then,  when  the  bark  is 
well  alight,  crinkling  and  curling,  push  it  under 
the  heap  of  kindlings,  give  the  flame  time  to  take 
a  good  hold,  and  lay  your  wood  over  it,  a  stick 
at  a  time,  until  the  whole  pile  is  blazing.  Now 


The  Open  Fire  223 

your  fire  is  started.  Your  friendly  little  red- 
haired  gnome  is  ready  to  serve  you  through  the 
night. 

He  will  dry  your  clothes  if  you  are  wet.  He 
will  cheer  you  up  if  you  are  despondent.  He 
will  diffuse  an  air  of  sociability  through  the 
camp,  and  draw  the  men  together  in  a  half-circle 
for  storytelling  and  jokes  and  singing.  He  will 
hold  a  flambeau  for  you  while  you  spread  your 
blankets  on  the  boughs  and  dress  for  bed.  He 
will  keep  you  warm  while  you  sleep, — at  least 
till  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when 
you  dream  that  you  are  out  sleighing  in  your 
pyjamas,  and  wake  up  with  a  shiver. 

"  Hold,  Ferdinand,  Francois! "  you  call  out 
from  your  bed,  pulling  the  blankets  over  your 
ears ;  "  Ramanchez  le  feu,  s'il  vous  plait.  Cest 
nn  freite  de  chien." 

III.      THE  COOKING-FIRE 

Of  course  such  a  fire  as  I  have  been  describing 
can  be  used  for  cooking,  when  it  has  burned 
down  a  little,  and  there  is  a  bed  of  hot  embers 
in  front  of  the  backlog.  But  a  correct  kitchen 
fire  should  be  constructed  after  another  fashion. 


224  Tbe  Open  Fire 


What  you  want  now  is  not  blaze,  but  heat,  and 
that  not  diffused,  but  concentrated.  You  must 
be  able  to  get  close  to  your  fire  without  burning 
your  boots  or  scorching  your  face. 

If  you  have  time  and  the  material,  make  a  fire 
place  of  big  stones.  But  not  of  granite,  for  that 
will  split  with  the  heat,  and  perhaps  fly  in  your 
face. 

If  you  are  in  a  hurry  and  there  are  no  suitable 
stones  at  hand,  lay  two  good  logs  nearly  parallel 
with  each  other,  a  foot  or  so  apart,  and  build 
your  fire  between  them.  For  a  cooking-fire, 
use  split  wood  in  short  sticks.  Let  the  first 
supply  burn  to  glowing  coals  before  you  begin. 
A  frying-pan  that  is  luke-warm  one  minute  and 
red-hot  the  next  is  the  abomination  of  desola 
tion.  If  you  want  black  toast,  have  it  made  be 
fore  a  fresh,  sputtering,  blazing  heap  of  wood. 

In  fires,  as  in  men,  an  excess  of  energy  is  a 
lack  of  usefulness.  The  best  work  is  done  with 
out  many  sparks.  Just  enough  is  the  right  kind 
of  a  fire  and  a  feast. 

To  know  how  to  cook  is  not  a  very  elegant 
accomplishment.  Yet  there  are  times  and  sea 
sons  when  it  seems  to  come  in  better  than  famil- 


'The  Open  Fire  225 

iarity  with  the  dead  languages,  or  much  skill 
upon  the  lute. 

You  cannot  always  rely  on  your  guides  for  a 
tasteful  preparation  of  food.  Many  of  them 
are  ignorant  of  the  difference  between  frying 
and  broiling,  and  their  notion  of  boiling  a  potato 
or  a  fish  is  to  reduce  it  to  a  pulp.  Now  and  then 
you  find  a  man  who  has  a  natural  inclination  to 
the  culinary  art,  and  who  does  very  well  within 
familiar  limits. 

Old  Edouard,  the  Montaignais  Indian  who- 
cooked  for  my  friends  H.  E.  G.  and  C.  S.  D.  last 
summer  on  the  Ste.  Marguerite  en  bas,  was  such 
a  man.  But  Edouard  could  not  read,  and  the 
only  way  he  could  tell  the  nature  of  the  canned 
provisions  was  by  the  pictures  on  the  cans.  If 
the  picture  was  strange  to  him,  there  was  no 
guessing  what  he  would  do  with  the  contents 
of  the  can.  He  was  capable  of  roasting  straw 
berries,  and  serving  green  peas  cold  for  dessert. 
One  day  a  can  of  mullagatawny  soup  and  a  can 
of  apricots  were  handed  out  to  him  simultane 
ously  and  without  explanations.  Edouard 
solved  the  problem  by  opening  both  cans  and 
cooking  them  together.  We  had  a  new  soup 
that  day,  mullagatawny  aux  abricots.  It  was 


226  'The  Open  Fire 

not  as  bad  as  it  sounds.  It  tasted  somewhat 
like  chutney. 

The  real  reason  why  food  that  is  cooked  over 
an  open  fire  tastes  so  good  to  us  is  because  we 
are  really  hungry  when  we  get  it.  The  man 
who  puts  up  provisions  for  camp  has  a  great 
advantage  over  the  dealers  who  must  satisfy  the 
pampered  appetite  of  people  in  houses.  I  never 
can  get  any  bacon  in  New  York  like  that  which 
1  buy  at  a  little  shop  in  Quebec  to  take  into  the 
woods.  If  I  ever  set  up  in  the  grocery  business, 
I  shall  try  to  get  a  good  trade  among  anglers.  It 
will  be  easy  to  please  my  customers. 

The  reputation  that  trout  enjoy  as  a  food-fish 
is  partly  due  to  the  fact  that  they  are  usually 
cooked  over  an  open  fire.  In  the  city  they  never 
taste  as  good.  It  is  not  merely  a  difference  in 
freshness.  It  is  a  change  in  the  sauce.  If  the 
truth  must  be  told,  even  by  an  angler,  there  are 
at  least  five  salt-water  fish  which  are  better  than 
trout, — to  eat.  There  is  none  better  to  catch. 


IV.       THE   SMUDGE-FIRE 

But  enough  of  the  cooking-fire.     Let  us  turn 
now  to  the  subject  of  the  smudge,  known  in 


The  Open  Fire  227 

Lower  Canada  as  la  boucane.  The  smudge 
owes  its  existence  to  the  pungent  mosquito,  the 
sanguinary  black-fly,  and  the  peppery  midge, — le 
maringouin,  la  moustique,  et  le  brulot.  To 
what  it  owes  its  English  name  I  do  not  know ; 
but  its  French  name  means  simply  a  thick, 
nauseating,  intolerable  smoke. 

The  smudge  is  called  into  being  for  the  ex 
press  purpose  of  creating  a  smoke  of  this  kind, 
which  is  as  disagreeable  to  the  mosquito,  the 
black-fly,  and  the  midge  as  it  is  to  the  man  whom 
they  are  devouring.  But  the  man  survives  the 
smoke,  while  the  insects  succumb  to  it,  being 
destroyed  or  driven  away.  Therefore  the 
smudge,  dark  and  bitter  in  itself,  frequently 
becomes,  like  adversity,  sweet  in  its  uses.  It 
must  be  regarded  as  a  form  of  fire  with  which 
man  has  made  friends  under  the  pressure  of  a 
cruel  necessity. 

It  would  seem  as  if  it  ought  to  be  the  simplest 
affair  in  the  world  to  light  up  a  smudge.  And 
so  it  is — if  you  are  not  trying. 

An  attempt  to  produce  almost  any  other  kind 
of  a  fire  will  bring  forth  smoke  abundantly.  But 
when  you  deliberately  undertake  to  create  a 
smudge,  flames  break  from  the  wettest  timber, 


228  The  Open  Fire 

and  green  moss  blazes  with  a  furious  heat.  You 
hastily  gather  handfuls  of  seemingly  incombus 
tible  material  and  throw  it  on  the  fire,  but  the 
conflagration  increases.  Grass  and  green 
leaves  hesitate  for  an  instant  and  then  flash  up 
like  tinder.  The  more  you  put  on,  the  more 
your  smudge  rebels  against  its  proper  task  of 
smudging.  It  makes  a  pleasant  warmth,  to  en 
courage  the  black-flies ;  and  bright  light  to  attract 
and  cheer  the  mosquitoes.  Your  effort  is  a  bril 
liant  failure. 

The  proper  way  to  make  a  smudge  is  this. 
Begin  with  a  very  little,  lowly  fire.  Let  it  be 
bright,  but  not  ambitious.  Don't  try  to  make  a 
smoke  yet. 

Then  gather  a  good  supply  of  stuff  which 
seems  likely  to  suppress  fire  without  smothering 
it.  Moss  of  a  certain  kind  will  do,  but  not  the 
soft,  feathery  moss  that  grows  so  deep  among 
the  spruce-trees.  Half-decayed  wood  is  good ; 
spongy,  moist,  .unpleasant  stuff,  a  vegetable  wet 
blanket.  The  bark  of  dead  evergreen  trees, 
hemlock,  spruce,  or  balsam,  is  better  still.  Gather 
a  plentiful  store  of  it.  But  don't  try  to  make 
a  smoke  yet. 

Let  your  fire  burn  a  while  longer ;  cheer  it  up 


The  Open  Fire  229 

a  little.  Get  some  clear,  resolute,  unquenchable 
coals  aglow  in  the  heart  of  it.  Don't  try  to 
make  a  smoke  yet. 

Now  pile  on  your  smouldering  fuel.  Fan  it 
with  your  hat.  Kneel  down  and  blow  it,  and  in 
ten  minutes  you  will  have  a  smoke  that  will  make 
you  wish  you  had  never  been  born. 

That  is  the  proper  way  to  make  a  smudge. 
But  the  easiest  way  is  to  ask  your  guide  to  make 
it  for  you. 

If  he  makes  it  in  an  old  iron  pot,  so  much  the 
better,  for  then  you  can  move  it  around  to  the 
windward  when  the  breeze  veers,  and  carry  it 
into  your  tent  without  risk  of  setting  everything 
on  fire,  and  even  take  it  with  you  in  the  canoe 
while  you  are  fishing. 

Some  of  the  pleasantest  pictures  in  the  ang 
ler's  gallery  of  remembrance  are  framed  in  the 
smoke  that  rises  from  a  smudge. 

With  my  eyes  shut,  I  can  call  up  a  vision  of 
eight  birch-bark  canoes  floating  side  by  side  on 
Moosehead  Lake,  on  a  fair  June  morning,  fif 
teen  years  ago.  They  are  anchored  off  Green 
Island,  riding  easily  on  the  long,  gentle  waves. 
In  the  stern  of  each  canoe  there  is  a  guide  with 
a  long-handled  net ;  in  the  bow,  an  angler  with 


230  The  Open  Fire 

a  light  fly-rod;  in  the  middle,  a  smudge-kettle, 
smoking  steadily.  In  the  air  to  the  windward 
of  the  little  fleet  hovers  a  swarm  of  flies  drifting 
down  on  the  shore  breeze,  with  bloody  purpose 
in  their  breasts,  but  baffled  by  the  protecting 
smoke.  In  the  water  to  the  leeward  plays  a 
school  of  speckled  trout,  feeding  on  the  minnows 
that  hang  around  the  sunken  ledges  of  rock. 
As  a  larger  wave  than  usual  passes  over  the 
ledges,  it  lifts  the  fish  up,  and  you  can  see  the 
big  fellows,  three,  and  four,  and  even  five  pounds 
apiece,  poising  themselves  in  the  clear  brown 
water.  A  long  cast  will  send  the  fly  over  one 
of  them.  Let  it  sink  a  foot.  Draw  it  up  with 
a  fluttering  motion.  Now  the  fish  sees  it,  and 
turns  to  catch  it.  There  is  a  yellow  gleam  in 
the  depth,  a  sudden  swirl  on  the  surface;  you 
strike  sharply,  and  the  trout  is  matching  his 
strength  against  the  spring  of  your  four  ounces 
of  split  bamboo. 

You  can  guess  at  his  size,  as  he  breaks  water, 
by  the  breadth  of  his  tail :  a  pound  of  weight  to 
an  inch  of  tail, — that  is  the  traditional  measure, 
and  it  usually  comes  pretty  close  to  the  mark, 
at  least  in  the  case  of  large  fish.  But  it  is  never 
safe  to  record  the  weight  until  the  trout  is  in  the 


The  Open  Fire  231 

canoe.     As  the  Canadian  hunters  say,  "  Sell  not 
the  skin  of  the  bear  while  he  carries  it." 

Now  the  breeze  that  blows  over  Green  Island 
drops  away,  and  the  smoke  of  the  eight  smudge- 
kettles  falls  like  a  thick  curtain.  The  canoes, 
the  dark  shores  of  Norcross  Point,  the  twin 
peaks  of  Spencer  Mountain,  the  dim  blue  sum 
mit  of  Katahdin,  the  dazzling  sapphire  sky,  the 
flocks  of  fleece-white  clouds  shepherded  on  high 
by  the  western  wind,  all  have  vanished.  With 
closed  eyes  I  see  another  vision,  still  framed  in 
smoke, — a  vision  of  yesterday. 

It  is  a  wild  river  flowing  into  the  Gulf  of  St. 
Lawrence,  on  the  Cote  Nord,  far  down  towards 
Labrador.  There  is  a  long,  narrow,  swift  pool 
between  two  parallel  ridges  of  rock.  Over  the 
ridge  on  the  right  pours  a  cataract  of  pale  yellow 
foam.  At  the  bottom  of  the  pool,  the  water 
slides  down  into  a  furious  rapid,  and  dashes 
straight  through  an  impassable  gorge  half  a  mile 
to  the  sea.  The  pool  is  full  of  salmon,  leaping 
merrily  in  their  delight  at  coming  into  their 
native  stream.  The  air  is  full  of  black-flies, 
rejoicing  in  the  warmth  of  the  July  sun.  On  a 
slippery  point  of  rock,  below  the  fall,  are  two 
anglers,  tempting  the  fisl]  and  enduring  the  flies. 


232  The  Open  Fire 

Behind  them  is  an  old  habitant  raising  a  mighty 
column  of  smoke. 

Through  the  cloudy  pillar  which  keeps  back 
the  Egyptian  host,  you  see  the  waving  of  a  long 
rod.  A  silver-grey  fly  with  a  barbed  tail  darts 
out  across  the  pool,  swings  around  with  the  cur 
rent,  well  under  water,  and  slowly  works  past 
the  big  rock  in  the  centre,  just  at  the  head  of  the 
rapid.  Almost  past  it,  but  not  quite :  for  sud 
denly  the  fly  disappears;  the  line  begins  to  run 
out ;  the  reel  sings  sharp  and  shrill ;  a  salmon  is 
hooked. 

But  how  well  is  he  hooked  ?  That  is  the  ques 
tion.  This  is  no  easy  pool  to  play  a  fish  in. 
There  is  no  chance  to  jump  into  a  canoe  and 
drop  below  him,  and  get  the  current  to  help  you 
in  drowning  him.  You  cannot  follow  him 
along  the  shore.  You  cannot  even  lead  him  into 
quiet  water,  where  the  gaffer  can  creep  near  to 
him  unseen  and  drag  him  in  with  a  quick  stroke. 
You  must  fight  your  fish  to  a  finish,  and  all  the 
advantages  are  on  his  side.  The  current  is 
terribly  strong.  If  he  makes  up  his  mind  to  go 
downstream  to  the  sea,  the  only  thing  you  can 
do  is  to  hold  him  by  main  force ;  and  then  it  is 


The  Open  Fire  233 

ten  to  one  that  the  hook  tears  out  or  the  leader 
breaks. 

It  is  not  in  human  nature  for  one  man  to 
watch  another  handling  a  fish  in  such  a  place 
without  giving  advice.  "  Keep  the  tip  of  your 
rod  up.  Don't  let  your  reel  overrun.  Stir  him 
up  a  little,  he's  sulking.  Don't  let  him  'jig/ 
or  you'll  lose  him.  You're  playing  him  too 
hard.  There,  he's  going  to  jump  again.  Drop 
your  tip.  Stop  him,  quick !  he's  going  down  the 
rapid!" 

Of  course  the  man  who  is  playing  the  salmon 
does  not  like  this.  If  he  is  quick-tempered, 
sooner  or  later  he  tells  his  counsellor  to  shut  up. 
But  if  he  is  a  gentle,  early-Christian  kind  of  a 
man,  wise  as  a  serpent  and  harmless  as  a  dove, 
he  follows  the  advice  that  is  given  to  him, 
promptly  and  exactly.  Then,  when  it  is  all 
ended,  and  he  has  seen  the  big  fish,  with  the  line 
over  his  shoulder,  poised  for  an  instant  on  the 
crest  of  the  first  billow  of  the  rapid,  and  has  felt 
the  leader  stretch  and  give  and  snap ! — then  he 
can  have  the  satisfaction,  while  he  reels  in  his 
slack  line,  of  saying  to  his  friend,  "  Well,  old 
man,  I  did  everything  just  as  you  told  me.  But 
I  think  if  I  had  pushed  that  fish  a  little  harder 
8* 


234  The  Open  Fire 


at  the  beginning,  as  I  wanted  to,  I  might  have 
saved  him." 

But  really,  of  course,  the  chances  were  all 
against  it.  In  such  a  pool,  most  of  the  larger 
fish  get  away.  Their  weight  gives  them  a  tre 
mendous  pull.  The  fish  that  are  stopped  from 
going  into  the  rapid,  and  dragged  back  from 
the  curling  wave,  are  usually  the  smaller  ones. 
Here  they  are,  —  twelve  pounds,  eight  pounds, 
six  pounds,  five  pounds  and  a  half,  four  pounds! 
Is  not  this  the  smallest  salmon  that  you  ever 
saw?  Not  a  grilse,  you  understand,  but  a  real 
salmon,  of  brightest  silver,  hall-marked  with 
St.  Andrew's  cross. 

Now  let  us  sit  down  for  a  moment  and  watch 
the  fish  trying  to  leap  up  the  falls.  There  is  a 
clear  jump  of  about  ten  feet,  and  above  that  an 
apparently  impossible  climb  of  ten  feet  more  up 
a  ladder  of  twisting  foam.  A  salmon  darts 
from  the  boiling  water  at  the  bottom  of  the  fall 
like  an  arrow  from  a  bow.  He  rises  in  a  beau 
tiful  curve,  fins  laid  close  to  his  body  and  tail 
quivering  ;  but  he  has  miscalculated  his  distance. 
He  is  on  the  downward  curve  when  the  water 
strikes  him  and  tumbles  him  back.  A  bold  little 
fish,  not  more  than  eighteen  inches  long,  makes 


The  Open  Fire  235 

a  jump  at  the  side  of  the  fall,  where  the  water  is 
thin,  and  is  rolled  over  and  over  in  the  spray.  A 
larger  salmon  rises  close  beside  us  with  a  tre 
mendous  rush,  bumps  his  nose  against  a  jutting 
rock,  and  flops  back  into  the  pool.  Now  comes 
a  fish  who  has  made  his  calculations  exactly. 
He  leaves  the  pool  about  eight  feet  from 
the  foot  of  the  fall,  rises  swiftly,  spreads 
his  fins,  and  curves  his  tail  as  if  he  were 
flying,  strikes  the  water  where  it  is  thickest  just 
below  the  brink,  holds  on  desperately,  and  drives 
himself,  with  one  last  wriggle,  through  the  bend 
ing  stream,  over  the  edge,  and  up  the  first  step 
of  the  foaming  stairway.  He  has  obeyed  the 
strongest  instinct  of  his  nature,  and  gone  up  to 
make  love  in  the  highest  fresh  water  that  he  can 
reach. 

The  smoke  of  the  smudge-fire  is  sharp  and 
tearful,  but  a  man  can  learn  to  endure  a  good 
deal  of  it  when  he  can  look  through  its  rings  at 
such  scenes  as  these. 


V.      THE    LITTLE    FRIENDSHIP-FIRE 

There  are  times  and  seasons  when  the  angler 
has  no  need  of  any  of  the  three  fires  of  which  we 


236  The  Open  Fire 

have  been  talking.  He  sleeps  in  a  house.  His 
breakfast  and  dinner  are  cooked  for  him  in  a 
kitchen.  He  is  in  no  great  danger  fo.m  black- 
flies  or  mosquitoes.  All  he  needs  now,  as  he 
sets  out  to  spend  a  day  on  the  Neversink,  or  the 
Willowemoc,  or  the  Shepaug,  or  the  Swiftvvater, 
is  a  good  lunch  in  his  pocket,  and  a  little  friend 
ship-fire  to  burn  pleasantly  beside  him  while  he 
eats  his  frugal  fare  and  prolongs  his  noonday 
rest. 

This  form  of  fire  does  less  work  than  any 
other  in  the  world.  Yet  it  is  far  from  being 
useless;  and  I,  for  one,  should  be  sorry  to  live 
without  it.  Its  only  use  is  to  make  a  visible 
centre  of  interest  where  there  are  two  or  three 
anglers  eating  their  lunch  together,  or  to  supply 
a  kind  of  companionship  to  a  lone  fisherman. 
It  is  kindled  and  burns  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  give  you  the  sense  of  being  at  home  and 
at  ease.  Why  the  fire  should  do  this,  I  cannot 
tell,  but  it  does.  &* 

You  may  build  your  friendship-fire  in  almost 
any  way  that  pleases  you ;  but  this  is  the  way  in 
which  you  shall  build  it  best.  You  have  no  axe, 
of  course,  so  you  must  look  about  for  the  driest 
sticks  that  you  can  find.  Do  not  seek  them  close 


The  Open  Fire  237 

beside  the  stream,  for  they  are  likely  to  be 
water-soaked;  but  go  back  into  the  woods  a  bit 
and  gather  a  good  armful  of  fuel.  Then  break 
it,  if  you  can,  into  lengths  of  about  two  feet, 
and  construct  your  fire  in  the  following  fashion. 
Lay  two  sticks  parallel,  and  put  between  them 
a  pile  of  dried  grass,  dead  leaves,  small  twigs, 
and  the  paper  in  which  your  lunch  was  wrapped. 
Then  lay  two  other  sticks  crosswise  on  top  of 
your  first  pair.  Strike  your  match  and  touch 
your  kindlings.  As  the  fire  catches,  lay  on 
other  pairs  of  sticks,  each  pair  crosswise  to  the 
pair  that  is  below  it,  until  you  have  a  pyramid 
of  flame.  This  is  "  a  Micmac  fire  "  such  as  the 
Indians  make  in  the  woods. 

Now  you  can  pull  off  your  wading-boots  and 
warm  your  feet  at  the  blaze.  You  can  toast  your 
bread  if  you  like.  You  can  even  make  shift  to 
broil  one  of  your  trout,  fastened  on  the  end  of 
a  birch  twig,  if  you  have  a  fancy  that  way.  When 
your  hunger  is  satisfied,  you  shake  out  the 
crumbs  for  the  birds  and  the  squirrels,  pick  up 
a  stick  with  a  coal  at  the  end  to  light  your  pipe, 
put  some  more  wood  on  your  fire,  and  settle 
down  for  an  hour's  reading  if  you  have  a  book 


238  The  Open  Fire 

in  your  pocket,  or  for  a  good  talk  if  you  have  a 
comrade  with  you. 

The  stream  of  time  flows  swift  and  smooth, 
by  such  a  fire  as  this.  The  moments  slip  past 
unheeded ;  the  sun  sinks  down  his  western  arch ; 
the  shadows  begin  to  fall  across  the  brook ;  it  is 
time  to  move  on  for  the  afternoon  fishing.  The 
fire  has  almost  burned  out.  But  do  not  trust  it 
too  much.  Throw  some  sand  over  it,  or  bring 
a  hatful  of  water  from  the  brook  to  pour  on  it, 
until  you  are  sure  that  the  last  glowing  ember  is 
extinguished,  and  nothing  but  the  black  coals 
and  the  charred  ends  of  the  sticks  are  left. 

Even  the  little  friendship-fire  must  keep  the 
law  of  the  bush.  All  lights  out  when  their  pur 
pose  is  fulfilled! 

VI.      ALTARS  OF  REMEMBRANCE 

It  is  a  question  that  we  have  often  debated, 
in  the  informal  meetings  of  our  Petrine  Club : 
Which  is  pleasanter, — to  fish  an  old  stream  or 
a  new  one? 

The  younger  members  are  all  for  the  "  fresh 
woods  and  pastures  new."  They  speak  of  the 
delight  of  turning  off  from  the  high-road  into 


'The  Open  Fire  239 

some  faintly-marked  trail;  following  it  blindly 
through  the  forest,  not  knowing  how  far  you 
have  to  go ;  hearing  the  voice  of  waters  sound 
ing  through  the  woodland ;  leaving  the  path  im 
patiently  and  striking  straight  across  the  under 
brush;  scrambling  down  a  steep  bank,  pushing 
through  a  thicket  of  alders,  and  coming  out 
suddenly,  face  to  face  with  a  beautiful,  strange 
brook.  It  reminds  you,  of  course,  of  some  old 
friend.  It  is  a  little  like  the  Beaverkill,  or  the 
Ausable,  or  the  Gale  River.  And  yet  it  is 
different.  Every  stream  has  its  own  character 
and  disposition.  Your  new  acquaintance  in 
vites  you  to  a  day  of  discoveries.  If  the  water 
is  high,  you  will  follow  it  down,  and  have 
easy  fishing.  If  the  water  is  low,  you  will 
go  upstream,  and  fish  "fine  and  far- 
off."  Every  turn  in  the  avenue  which  the 
little  river  has  made  for  you  opens  up  a  new 
view, — a  rocky  gorge  where  the  deep  pools  are 
divided  by  white-footed  falls;  a  lofty  forest 
where  the  shadows  are  deep  and  the  trees  arch 
overhead ;  a  flat,  sunny  stretch  where  the  stream 
is  spread  out,  and  pebbly  islands  divide  the 
channels,  and  the  big  fish  are  lurking  at  the  sides 


240  The  Open  Fire 

in  the  sheltered  corners  under  the  bushes.  From 
scene  to  scene  you  follow  on,  delighted  and  ex 
pectant,  until  the  night  suddenly  drops  its  veil, 
and  then  you  will  be  lucky  if  you  can  find  your 
way  home  in  the  dark! 

Yes,  it  is  all  very  good,  this  exploration  of 
new  streams.  But,  for  my  part,  I  like  still 
better  to  go  back  to  a  familiar  little  river,  and 
fish  or  dream  along  the  banks  where  I  have 
dreamed  and  fished  before.  I  know  every  bend 
and  curve :  the  sharp  turn  where  the  water  runs 
under  the  roots  of  the  old  hemlock-tree;  the 
snaky  glen,  where  the  alders  stretch  their  arms 
far  out  across  the  stream;  the  meadow  reach, 
where  the  trout  are  fat  and  silvery,  and  will  only 
rise  about  sunrise  or  sundown,  unless  the  day  is 
cloudy;  the  Naiad's  Elbow,  where  the  brook 
rounds  itself,  smooth  and  dimpled,  to  embrace 
a  cluster  of  pink  laurel-bushes.  All  these  I 
know;  yes,  and  almost  every  current  and  eddy 
and  backwater  I  know  long  before  I  come  to  it. 
I  remember  where  I  caught  the  big  trout  the 
first  year  I  came  to  the  stream ;  and  where  I  lost 
a  bigger  one.  I  remember  the  pool  where  there 
were  plenty  of  good  fish  last  year,  and  wonder 
whether  they  are  there  now. 


The  Open  Fire  241 

Better  things  than  these  I  remember:  the 
companions  with  whom  I  have  followed  the 
stream  in  days  long  past;  the  rendezvous  with 
a  comrade  at  the  place  where  the  rustic  bridge 
crosses  the  brook;  the  hours  of  sweet  converse 
beside  the  friendship-fire;  the  meeting  at  twi 
light  with  my  lady  Greygown  and  the  children, 
who  have  come  down  by  the  wood-road  to  walk 
home  with  me. 

Surely  it  is  pleasant  to  follow  an  old  stream. 
Flowers  grow  along  its  banks  which  are  not  to 
be  found  anywhere  else  in  the  wide  world. 
"There  is  rosemary,  that's  for  remembrance; 
and  there  are  pansies,  they  are  for  thoughts !  " 

One  May  evening,  a  couple  of  years  since,  I 
was  angling  in  the  Swiftwater,  and  came  upon 
Joseph  Jefferson,  stretched  out  on  a  large  rock 
in  mid-stream,  and  casting  the  fly  down  a  long 
pool.  He  had  passed  the  threescore  years  and 
ten,  but  he  was  as  eager  and  as  happy  as  a  boy 
in  his  fishing. 

"  You  here !  "  I  cried.  "  What  good  fortune 
brought  you  into  these  waters  ?  " 

"Ah,"  he  answered,  "I  fished  this  brook 
forty-five  years  ago.  It  was  in  the  Paradise 
Valley  that  I  first  thought  of  Rip  Van  Winkle. 

\ 


242  The  Open  Fire 

I  wanted  to  come  back  again  for  the  sake  of  old 
times." 

But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  an  open  fire  ? 
I  will  tell  you.  It  is  at  the  places  along  the 
stream,  where  the  little  flames  of  love  and  friend 
ship  have  been  kindled  in  bygone  days,  that  the 
past  returns  most  vividly.  These  are  the  altars 
of  remembrance. 

It  is  strange  how  long  a  small  fire  will  leave 
its  mark.  The  charred  sticks,  the  black  coals, 
do  not  decay  easily.  If  they  lie  well  up  the 
bank,  out  of  reach  of  the  spring  floods,  they 
will  stay  there  for  years.  If  you  have  chanced 
to  build  a  rough  fireplace  of  stones  from  the 
brook,  it  seems  almost  as  if  it  would  last  for  ever. 

There  is  a  mossy  knoll  beneath  a  great  butter 
nut-tree  on  the  Swiftwater  where  such  a  fire 
place  was  built  four  years  ago ;  and  whenever  I 
come  to  that  place  now  I  lay  the  rod  aside,  and 
sit  down  for  a  little  while  by  the  fast-flowing 
water,  and  remember. 

This  is  what  I  see:  A  man  wading  up  the 
stream,  with  a  creel  over  his  shoulder,  and  per 
haps  a  dozen  trout  in  it ;  two  little  lads  in  grey 
corduroys  running  down  the  path  through  the 
woods  to  meet  him,  one  carrying  a  frying-pan 


Open  Fire  243 


and  a  kettle,  the  other  with  a  basket  of  lunch  on 
his  arm.  Then  I  see  the  bright  flames  leaping 
up  in  the  fireplace,  and  hear  the  trout  sizzling 
in  the  pan,  and  smell  the  appetising  odour.  Now 
I  see  the  lads  coming  back  across  the  foot-bridge 
that  spans  the  stream,  with  a  bottle  of  milk  from 
the  nearest  farmhouse.  They  are  laughing  and 
teetering  as  they  balance  along  the  single  plank. 
Now  the  table  is  spread  on  the  moss.  How  good 
the  lunch  tastes  !  Never  were  there  such  pink- 
fleshed  trout,  such  crisp  and  savoury  slices  of 
broiled  bacon.  Douglas  (the  beloved  doll  that 
the  younger  lad  shamefacedly  brings  out  from 
the  pocket  of  his  jacket)  must  certainly  have 
some  of  it.  And  after  the  lunch  is  finished,  and 
the  birds'  portion  has  been  scattered  on  the  moss, 
we  creep  carefully  on  our  hands  and  knees  to 
the  edge  of  the  brook,  and  look  over  the  bank 
at  the  big  trout  that  is  poising  himself  in  the 
amber  water.  We  have  tried  a  dozen  times  to 
catch  him,  but  never  succeeded.  The  next  time, 
perhaps  - 

Well,  the  fireplace  is  still  standing.  The 
butternut-tree  spreads  its  broad  branches  above 
the  stream.  The  violets  and  the  bishops'-caps 
and  the  wild  anemones  are  sprinkled  over  the 


244  T^e  Open  Fire 


banks.  The  yellow-throat  and  the  water-thrush 
and  the  vireos  still  sing  the  same  tunes  in  the 
thicket.  And  the  elder  of  the  two  lads  often 
comes  back  with  me  to  that  pleasant  place  and 
shares  my  fisherman's  luck  beside  the  Swift- 
water. 

But  the  younger  lad  ? 

Ah,  my  little  Barney,  you  have  gone  to  follow 
a  new  stream,  —  clear  as  crystal,  —  flowing 
through  fields  of  wonderful  flowers  that  never 
fade.  It  is  a  strange  river  to  Teddy  and  me; 
strange  and  very  far  away.  Some  day  we  shall 
see  it  with  you  ;  and  you  will  teach  us  the  names 
of  those  blossoms  that  do  not  wither.  But  till 
then,  little  Barney,  the  other  lad  and  I  will  fol 
low  the  old  stream  that  flows  by  the  woodland 
fireplace,  —  your  altar. 

Rue  grows  here.  Yes,  there  is  plenty  of  rue. 
But  there  is  also  rosemary,  that's  for  remem 
brance  !  And  close  beside  it  I  see  a  little  heart's- 
ease. 


A  Slumber  Song 


FOR   THE   FISHERMAN  S    CHILD 

FURL  your  sail,  my  little  boatie; 
Here's  the  haven  still  and  deep, 
Where  the  dreaming  tides,  in-streaming, 

Up  the  channel  creep. 
See,  the  sunset  breeze  is  dying; 
Hark,  the  plover,  landward  flying, 
Softly  down  the  twilight  crying; 
Come  to  anchor,  little  boatie, 
In  the  port  of  Sleep. 

Far  away,  my  little  boatie, 

Roaring  waves  are  white  with  foam ; 
Ships  are  striving,  onward  driving, 

Day  and  night  they  roam. 
Father's  at  the  deep-sea  trawling, 
In  the  darkness,  rowing,  hauling, 
While  the  hungry  winds  are  calling, — 
God  protect  him,  little  boatie, 
Bring  him  safely  home ! 
245 


246  A  Slumber  Song 


Not  for  you,  my  little  boatie, 

Is  the  wide  and  weary  sea; 
You're  too  slender,  and  too  tender, 

You  must  rest  with  me. 
All  day  long  you  have  been  straying 
Up  and  down  the  shore  and  playing; 
Come  to  port,  make  no  delaying! 
Day  is  over,  little  boatie, 
Night  falls  suddenly. 

Furl  your  sail,  my  little  boatie; 

Fold  your  wings,  my  tired  dove. 
Dews  are  sprinkling,  stars  are  twinkling 

Drowsily  above. 

Cease  from  sailing,  cease  from  rowing; 
Rock  upon  the  dream-tide,  knowing 
Safely  o'er  your  rest  are  glowing, 
All  the  night,  my  little  boatie, 
Harbour-lights  of  love. 


Index 


ADAM  :  his  early  education, 

94 ;  his  opinion  of  woman, 

117 

"  Afghan's  Knife,  The,"  177 
Algebra:    the    equation    of 

life,  19 

"  Alice  Lorraine,"  155 
"  Along       New       England 

Roads,"  152 

Altars  of  remembrance,  242 

"  Amateur  Angler's  Days  in 

v'      Dove  Dale,  An,"  45,  150 

"  American  Angler's  Book, 

The,"  151 
"  American  Salmon  Angler, 

The,"  152 
"  Among      New      England 

Hills,"  152 
^  "Angler,    The    Compleat," 

see  Walton,  Izaak 
Angler :    the   education    of 

an,  117. 

"  Angler's  Guide,  The,"  146 
Angling:  an  affair  of  luck, 

12;      a  means  of  escape 

from    t&dium    vita,    20  • 

books     about,     classified, 

M4,  145 
"  Angling     Reminiscences  " 

of  Thomas  Tod  Stoddart, 

147 
"  Angling     Sketches,"     by 

Andrew  Lang,  150 


Antony:  deceived  by  Cleo 
patra,  153 

Arden,  the  Forest  of :  direc 
tion  for  reaching,  21 

Ascension  Day:  good  for 
fishing,  13 

Bald  Mountain,  186 
Banquets :     two    delectable 

ones,  27,  28 
Baptists,    Seventh-Day:   an 

inducement  to  join  them, 

13 
Barber :      the     philosophic 

conduct  of  a,  21 
Barker,  Thomas,  144 
Bartlett,   Mr.   John ;   pisca 
torial  collection  of,  143 
Bergen :  town  of,  170 
Berries,  84;    Izaak  Walton 

quoted  on,  85 
Bethune,   Rev.   Dr.   George 

W.,  an  editor  of  Walton, 

,*S 

Birds :     their     unexpected 
ness,    30;    their   courage, 
33.  2°3;  their  manner  of 
singing,  64-66,  81 
Birds  named : 
Blue  jay,  197 
Boblink,  81 
Brown  thrush,  66 
Catbird,  104,  197 


247 


248 


Index 


Birds  named: 
Crow,  203 
Dove,  102,  103 
English  sparrow  not  a 

bird,  65,  106 
Grosbeak,  rose-breasted 

66 

Hooded  warbler,  30 
Kingbird,  203 
Mockingbird,  66 
Oriole,  66 
Parrot,  64 
Partridge,    32 
Pigeon-hawk,  183 
Redstart,  31 
Robin,  66 
Rose-breasted  grosbeak, 

66 

Spotted  sandpiper,  33 
Swallow,   184 
Thrush,  184 
Veery,  66 
Vireos,  244 
Water-thrush,  244 
White-throat,  66 
Wood  thrush,  66 
Wren,  66 

Yellow-throat,  184,  244 
Yellow    warblers^    104 
j    Black,  William :  his  know 
ledge  of  angling,  157 
v      Blackmore,  R.  D.,  151 ;  fish 
ing  described  by,  155 
"  Book  of  the  Black  Bass," 

I5i 

Borgund:  church  at,  170 
Boyle,  Hon.  Robert,  149 
Brogue :  as  an  ornament  of 

speech,  77 

Brook:  a  lazy,  idle,  194;  in 
the  bower,  195 ;  con 
sidered  as  a  sign,  199;  the 


lesson  of  a,  204;  fishing 
in  a,  208 

Browsing :  a  di^rsion  for 
anglers,  83 

Burroughs,  John,  142  *S 

Butler,  Dr.  William:  his 
pleasant  saying  about  the 
strawberry,  85 ;  his  cha 
racter  as  a  physician  and 
a  philosopher,  86-87 

"  By  Meadow  and  Stream,"    , 
150  / 

Byron,  Lord :  a  detractor  of 
Walton,  140 

Camp-fire:  the  art  of  kind 
ling  a,  220 

Camping:   pleasures  of,  24 
Cannon   Mountain,   186 
"  Chalk-Stream       Studies," 

148 
Chance :  a  good  word  with 

a  bad  reputation,  18 
Chatto,     William    Andrew, 

134,  I5i 
Cheerfulness :    a    virtue    in 

good  talk,  78 

Christian    character :    illus 
trated,  39 
Civilisation :       a      nervous 

disease,  200 
Cleopatra,  153 
"  Cloister  and  the  Hearth, 

The,"  ill 

Colquhoun,  John,   147 
Conversation  :        compared 

with  talk,  21 
Cook :  a  good,  225 
Cooking-fire :     the     art     of 

kindling  a,  223 
Cotton,  Charles,  58,  144 
Crinkle-root,  83 


Index 


249 


"  Crocker's  Hole,"  151 
Crosby,     Chancellor 

Howard:   a  good  talker, 

72 

'Davy,      Sir     Humphry : 
slighted    by    Christopher 
North,  148 
/•   "Days  in  Clover,"  150 

Days :  Superstitions  about 
them,  12-13 

Dennys,  John :  "  The  Se 
crets  of  Angling,"  quoted, 
141 

De  Peyster,  Mr.  and  Mrs. : 
the  success  of,  in  the  art 
of  the  angler,  117 
-'De  Quincey,  Thomas,  144 

Deucalion :  the  first  artistic 
fisherman,  II 

Dickinson,    Emily :    quoted, 

93 

Drivstuen,   178 

Eagle  Cliff,  186 
Elizabeth,  Queen,  87 
Elk:  the  Tarn  of  the,  176 
"  Emerson,     Ralph     Waldo: 

quoted,  113 
English    sparrows :    beasts, 

not  birds,  65 

y>'  Essays  Critical  and  Ima 
ginative  "  of  Christopher 
North,  148 
Etnadal,  167 
V"Ettrick  Shepherd,"  the,  58 

Fagornaes,    171 

Faleide,  175 

Fawkes,  Guy,  87 

Fire:    fear   of   animals  of, 


215;  kindling  a  fire  in 
the  woods,  218 ;  the  camp- 
fire,  220;  the  cooking- 
fire,  223 ;  the  smudge-fire, 
226;  the  little  friendship- 
fire,  235 

Fish :  their  waywardness, 
50,  213;  how  an  angler 
feels  about  them,  34-35; 
whether  they  can  hear, 
.59-6o;  domesticated,  95 
Fish  named : 

Grass-pike,  206 

Grayling,  58,  180 

Grilse,  234 

Ouananiche,  43,  45,  50, 
Si 

Pickerel,  135 

Pike,  17,  96 

Salmon,  38,  44,  234 

Sunfish,  206 

Trout,  58,  60,  145,  iSSi 
172,  180,  206,  211,  213, 
226,  230 

"  Fishin'  Jimmy,  152 
Fishing:  passim;  an  affair 
of  luck,  1 1 ;  lucky  days 
for,  12;  a  means  of  es 
cape  from  routine,  20 ;  the 
only  eventful  mode  of 
life,  21 ;  good  luck  in, 
deserving  of  gratitude, 
36;  the  schooling  of  a 
woman  angler,  119; 
catching  pickerel  through 
the  ice,  135  ;  the  best  win 
ter  diversion  indoors,  139; 
books  on,  144,  146 ;  "  Fish 
and  Fishing,"  151,  in  old 
streams  and  new,  238 
"  Fish-Tails  and  a  Few  ,. 
Others,"  150  r 


250 


Index 


Flies:  various  theories  for 
the  use  of,  50;  the  grass 
hopper  a  last  hope,  51 ; 
style  in,  144 

Flowers :    wild    and    tame, 
91-92;  luck  in  finding,  94 
Flowers  named: 
Anemone,  243 
Anemone,    double    ru:, 

94 

Bishop's-cap,  243 
Gentian,  fringed,  93 
Hare-bells,  81 
Heart's-ease,  244 
Laurel,  mountain,  81 
Loose-strife,  yellow,  81 
Orchid,  purple-fringed, 

81 

Prince's  pine,  81 
Rosemary,  241,  244 
Rue,  244 
Twin-flower,  82 
.          Violet,  243 
v    "  Fly-Fisher's    Entomology, 

The,"  60 

"Fly-Rods       and       Fly- 
Tackle,"  152 
Fontainebleau,   95 
Forester,  Frank,  151 
Forests :  real  and  artificial, 

96-97 

Fox:  red,  197 

v/  Franck,  Richard :  a  detrac 
tor  of  Walton,  140 
Franconia  Mountains,   184 
Freedom  of   spirit:   an  es 
sential  of  good  company, 

S    "Fresh  Woods,"  150 

Friendliness :  its  magical 
power,  79 


Friendship-fire,  the  little, 
235- 

Gambling :  a  harmless 
variety  of,  17 

"  Game  Fish  of  the  North,'' 
151 

Garfield,  Mount,  185 

Geiranger-Fjord:  cliffs  of, 
170 

Golf :  respectfully  alluded 
to,  71 

Gratitude :  a  virtue,  36 

Grayling,  58 

Great  South  Bay,  the,  192 

Greetings :  their  signifi 
cance,  9;  superior  quality 
of  the  angler's  salutation, 
ii 

Grey,  Sir  Edward,  42        ^ 

Greygrown,  my  Lady:  her 
praise,  dedication,  79,  162, 
174,  198-199 

Habits :     the     pleasure     of 

changing  them,  20 
Hall,   Bradnock,   150    • 
Hamlet,  no 
Hastings,    Lady    Elizabeth : 

her    "  liberal    education," 

H3 

Heart,  A  Contented,"  142 
"Heart      of       Midlothian,  v 

The,"  ill 
Henry    Esmond :     romantic 

love  in,  in 
Higginson,  Colonel  Thomas 

Wentworth :  quoted,  94 
Honeymoon :  a  Norwegian, 

1 60 
Houses :    the    disadvantage 

gf    living    in    them,    225 


Index 


251 


built  by    four-footed   ar 
chitects,  216 
Humour :    as    a   means    of 

grace,  78 
V  "Hypatia,"  in 

"I   Go  A-Fishing,"   152 
Indolence,  defined,  201 ;  the 

teachers  of,  204 
Indvik  Fjord,  175 
v'  Irving,  Washington :  quoted, 

81,  157 

James,  William:  his  de 
fence  of  chance,  18 

James  of  Scotland,  87 

Jefferies,    Richard :    quoted, 
v       183 

Jefferson,  Joseph:  as  an 
author,  58;  as  fisherman, 
241 

Jerkin,  170 

"John   Inglesant,"   in 

Johnson,    Dr.    Samuel :    his 
word      "  clubable,"      63 ; 
quoted,  103 
v/"  Jungle  Books,  The,"  112 

Kant,  Immanuel :  his  rules 

for  talk,  69 
Kariol,  165,  170 
Katahdin,  Mount,  231 
King,    Clarence:     a     good 

talker,  69 

*      "  King  Lear,"   no 
„    Kingsley,   Charles,   148 
Kinsman  Mountain,  186 

Lafayette,   Mount,   186 
Lake  George :  a  scene  on,  17 


Lakes  named  : 

George,  17,  164 
Loenvand,  the,  175 
Moosehead,   120,  229 
Pharaoh,  130 
Rangeley,  123 
St.  John,  53 

Lamb,  Charles:  quoted,  9; 
his  essays,  90,  142 

"  Land  of  Steady  Habits, 
The,"  20 

Landaff  Valley,  186 

Long,  Mr.  Andrew :  his 
"Angling  Sketches,"  150 

Life :  reflections,  chiefly 
upon  its  uncertainty, 
19-20,  26,  39-40,  98-99; 
the  philosophy  of  a  quiet 
life,  200-203 

"  Little  Flowers  of  St. 
Francis,"  quoted,  27 

Loenvand,  the,  175 

Long  Island :  a  good  place 
to  cure  insomnia,  191 

"  Lorna  Doone,"  in,  151 

Love :  romantic  love  not  the 
"  greatest  thing  in  the 
world,"  112 

Lovers :  sudden  appearance 
of,  in  the  landscape  in 
spring,  102;  their  relation 
to  the  landscape,  102; 
charm  added  to  the  land 
scape  by,  102;  society  ar 
ranged  for  their  conveni 
ence,  103 

Lowell,  James  Russell : 
quoted,  56 ;  alluded  to,  142 

Lucian :  his  dubious  fish 
story,  60 

Luck :  indispensable  to  fish 
ermen,  ii ;  varieties  ofx 


252 


Index 


13;  the  charm  of  trying 
it,  15;  a  subject  for  grati 
tude,  36 ;  not  to  be  boaslcd 
of,  38;  a  parable  of  life, 
38;  the  way  to  make 
friends  of  it,  40 

V  Luther,  Martin:  his  opinion 
,  of  pike,  17 

7  Lytton,  Sir  Edward  Bul- 
wer,  his  fishy  advice,  155 


/  "Macbeth,"  no 

Macduff,  the  Reverend  Bel- 

licosus,  71 

"Madame  Delphine,"  in 
Malignancy:  a  brilliant  ex 
ample  of,  25 

Marriage :      philosophically 
considered,   111-113,   162 
Marston,  Mr.  Edward,  150 
Mary,  "  Bloody  "  Queen,  87 
"  Maxims  and  Hints  for  an 

Angler,"  148 

McCabe,  W.  Gordon:  how 
he   crossed   the   Atlantic, 
78 
McCosh,    Dr.    James:    his 

manner  of  speech,  77 
Milton,  John :  quoted,  63 
Montaigne,  M.  de :  quoted, 
title-page,   70 ;    variations 
on  a  theme  from,  71 
Moody,  Martin,  Esq.,  138 
/"  "  Moor  and  the  Loch,  The," 

147 

Moosilauke,  186 
Mountains :  the  real  owner 

of  the,  1 86 
/    "  My  Novel,"   155 


Nedre  Vasenden:   the  sta 
tion  at,  170 
Newport :  sport  at,  14 
Norcross  Point,  231 
Norris,  Thaddeus,  151 
Norway:   a  honeymoon  in, 

163 

"  Notre  Dame,"  m       ^ 
North  Christopher,  58,  148 
N 

"  Occasional  Reflections  " 
of  Hon.  Robert  Boyle, 
149 

Odnaes,   164,   166 

"Ole  'Stracted,"  in 

Othello,  1 10 

"  Owl   Creek  Letters,"   152 

Parrots :  productive  of  un- 

Christian  feelings,  64 
"  Peace  and  War,"  in 
Penn,  Richard,  148 
Peppermint,  83 
Pike,  17,  96 
Piscator,  142 
Plutarch :  his  fish  story  of 

Antony     and     Cleopatra, 

152 

Preserves :  for  fish,  95 
Pride :     unbecoming    in    a 

fisherman,  37 

Prime,  Dr.  William  C,  152 
"  Procession  of  the  Flowers, 

The,"  93 
Pronunciation,  correct :  as  a 

mania,  76 

"Quo  Vadis?"  in 

Rabbit:  cotton-tail,  197 
"  Rambles  with  a  Fishing- 


Index 


253 


Rod,"  by  E.   S.  Roscoe, 
149 

Randsfjord,  163,  164 
Raphael,  the  Archangel :  his 

one-sided  affability,  63 
Rauma :  the  vale  of  the,  179 
/• "  Recreations     of     Christo 
pher  North,  The,"  148 
-  "  Redgauntlet  "  :  angling  in, 

154 
Remembrance :     altars     of, 

242 

/  "  Rip  Van  Winkle,"  in,  241 
"  Rise    of     Silas    Lapham, 

The,"  in 
Ristigouche,  32 
-  "Rivals,  The,"   m 
Rivers,  named: 
Ausable,  239 
Baegna,  168 
Bouquet,  173 
Dove,  39 
Gale,   184,  239 
Hudson,  91 
Lea,  39 
Marshpee,  58 
Meacham,   119 
Metabetchouan,  79 
Moose,  120 
Naeselv,   171 
Natasheebo,   131 
Neversink,  236 
New,  40 
Penobscot,  173 
P'tit  Saguenay,  36 
Randsfjord,  163,  164 
Rauma,  179 
Ristigouche,  32 
Saguenay,  37,  38 
Shepaug,  236 


Rivers,  named: 

Swift-water,  81,  94,  236, 

241,  242,  244 
Ulyaa,  179 
Willowemoc,  236 
Rob  Roy:  an  eel  named,  60 
"  Rod  in  India,  The,"  150 
Romola,  in 
Romsdal,  the,  170,   179 
Ronalds,  Mr. :  quoted,  60 
Roosevelt,   Mr.   Robert   B., 

I5i 

Roscoe,  E.  S.,  149 

"  Roundabout    Papers,"    67 

Sabbath-Day  Point,  16 
Sage,  Mr.  Dean :  piscatorial 

library  of,  143 
Saguenay,  the  Big,  37,  38 
Saguenay,  the  Little,  36 
Salmon,  35,  57  ^ 

"  Salmonia,"  148      "^ 
"  Schuylkill    Fishing    Com 
pany,"   151 
Scott,  Sir  Walter:  quoted, 

154 

Sermon :  a  good  one,  57 
Singlewitz,        Solomon: 

quoted,    117,    160 
"  Sketch  Book,"  157    vX 
Skogstad:    the    station    at, 

172 

Skydsgut,   167 
Slosson,  Mrs.  Annie  Trum- 
bull :    her    "  Fishin'    Jim 
my,"  152 

Slumber  Song,  A,  245 
Smallness :   not  a  mark  of 

inferiority,  90 
Smith,  Captain  John,  89 
Smudge:   the   art  of  kind 
ling  a,  226 


254 


Index 


Spearmint,  83 

St.  Anthony  of  Padua,  57 

St.  B  randan,  57 

St.  Francis  of   Assisi,  27 

St.  Peter,  18,  36 

Stedman,  Mr.  Edmund  Cla 
rence,  145 

\s^  Steele,  Richard :  quoted,  113 
...  Stevenson,    Robert    Louis : 

quoted,  62,  191 
v •  Stoddart,  Thomas  Tod,  147 

Stolkjaerres,  170 

Storm  King  Club:  a  festi 
val  of,  91 

Strawberry,  the:  one  that 
God  made,  85 ;  imported 
to  England,  87;  wild  and 
tame,  91 

Stuefloten,   178,  179 

Style:  the  value  of,  91 

Summer  Schools :  persons 
for  whom  they  have  no 
attractions,  15 

Sunday:  fishing  on,  12 

"  Superior  Fishing,"  151 

Swiftwater :  a  well-named 
brook,  81 


Talk :  anglers  urged  to, 
56-58 ;  varieties  of,  66-70 ; 
obstacles  to  its  perfection, 

7i,  75,  76 

Talkability :  defined,  62,  63 ; 
a  talkable  person,  64 ;  con 
trasted  with  talkativity, 
66 ;  not  the  same  as  elo 
quence,  66 ;  commended, 
68-80;  the  fourfold  con 
ditions  of,  71 ;  goodness, 
71 ;  freedom,  75 ;  gaiety, 
78;  friendship,  80 


Tarn  of  the  Elk,  the,  176; 

trout  in,  177 
Telephone:  its  influence  on 

manners,  10 
Tennyson:  as  a  talker,  77; 

quoted,  61 
Tent :  life  in  a,  23 
Thackeray,  W.  M. :  quoted, 

67 
Thersites:    as   a  journalist, 

74 

Thomas,  H.  S.,  150 
' "  Three   Musketeers,    The," 

ill,  177 
Timoleon :  the  unlucky  one, 

38. 
Tobias,  the  son  of  Tobit: 

his  adventure  with  a  pike, 

96 
Tommy's     Rock :     a    good 

place  for  blackfish,  14 
'"  Treasure  Island,"  177 
Trees :  why  boys  and  girls 

love  them,  94 
Trench,  Archbishop,  201 
Trolley-car :    the    blessings 

of  its  absence,  25 
Trout,  58,  60,  155,  172,  207, 

213,  230 ;  taste  of,  for  flies, 

144;  in  Norway,   172;  in 

the  Tarn  of  the  Elk,  177; 

in  the  Rauma  in  Norway, 

179;  a  good  catch,  211; 

eating     versus     catching, 

226 
Twin  Mountain,  185 

Vacations:  can  be  taken 
without  long  journeys,  21 

Valders,  the  vale  of,  168, 
181 

Virgil :  quoted,   145 


Index 


255 


Virginia:  talk  in,  78;  its 
strawberries,  87,  90 ; 
bread  in  a  Virginia  coun 
try  house,  179 

Walton,  Izaak :  described, 
37,  38;  quoted,  37,  85; 
his  luck  in  literature,  139; 
his  detractors,  140;  Dr. 
Bethune's  edition  of,  151 ; 
fishermen  born,  not  made, 

ISI 

Warner,  Charles  Dudley : 
quoted,  215 

Water :  emblem  of  insta 
bility,  15 

Weather:  a  subject  of 
talk,  63,  69;  various  re 
marks  on,  22-24,  98 

Webster,  Daniel:  as  an 
angler,  58 


Wells,    Mr.   Henry   P.,   60, 

152 
Wife :  the  right  kind  of  a, 

79 
Wilson,      Professor     John, 

"A.    M."    and    "  F.R.S." 

147,  148 

"Winter's  Tale,  A,"  in 
Women  wanting  in  natural 

ability  to  fish,  125 
Woods :    scenes   in  the,  81, 

96-97 
"Words  and  Their  Uses," 

201 

Wordsworth,    William  : 

quoted,  14 
Wotton,  Sir  Henry :  quoted, 

134 

Youth :  a  recipe  for  renew 
ing,  92 


Made  and  Printed  in  Great  Britain. 
Hazell,  Watson  6-  Viney,  Ld.,  London  and  Ayksbury. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


D-URi 

; 


i  L9-50m-9,'60(B3610s4)444 


PS 

5117  Van    . 

F53   Fisherman's  luck 

1-906  and  some  other 

uncertain  tnings 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001228214 


PS 

3177 
F53 
1906 


UCLA-Young  Research   Library 

PS3117  .F53   1906 

y 


L  009  613  278  2 


